Sophie's Halloo (6 page)

“Anyway, as I was saying, we heard the cry of the leader. And Bentham, who was keeping pace with me at the time, says, ‘That will be Patch in the lead.’ He spoke with full confidence. I assure you that we were so far behind the pack that I had to wonder how he could distinguish the cries, but as we caught up to them, Bentham’s huntsman, as fine a man as ever held that position, confirmed it. He had thought it another hound, but Bentham proved to be right!” And to emphasize the astounding nature of his story, Sir John brought his hand down on the table with a loud slap.

The slap caught Sophie, whose thoughts had drifted, unawares. Her head jerked so forcefully that she was certain their guest must have noticed it, but glancing in his direction, she realized that he had not. He was giving his full attention to her father, and his expression was so rapt with fascination that her heart sank within her. An inner voice cried, “Oh, no.”

Sir John was still speaking about his master of hounds. “He breeds hard-to-line, of course. Won’t allow bow-legged blood to enter in, even if it means sacrificing strong scenting ability to speed. He has to hang many a pup, but, of course, it’s necessary.”

“Of course,” agreed Mr. Rollo without a blink.

“I give him free walking rights over all my own properties. He has not enough to exercise the hounds properly during cubbing season. He don’t let them kill the foxes in cover, mind you, for a seasoned fox is as necessary to the hunt as a seasoned hound, I always say.”

“I could not agree with you more, Sir John,” said Mr. Rollo. He sighed. “I must say I envy you your county of residence. I have hunted from Melton Mowbray, and it was the greatest pleasure of my life, but it takes means to maintain one’s own stud so far away from one’s home county.”

“Have you not the income for it, my boy?” asked Sir John sympathetically.

“Alas, no,” said Mr. Rollo. “Not yet. But do not think my prospects are without hope,” he added, remembering the presence of the ladies. “I am fortunate to have a doting aunt who has the intention of making me her heir. She will be leaving me quite well off, and I have reason to hope she will not last out the year.”

“That is splendid, my boy!” cried Sir John. “We will drink to the prospect of seeing you in Leicestershire before the year is out.”

“That is very kind of you, Sir John,” smirked Mr. Rollo. “Would that I had not even so short a time to wait. I would not be kicking up my heels in London were it so. I have given serious thoughts to borrowing against my expectations so that the wait might be foregone. I have made it known in the city that my future looks bright, and it has stood me in good stead with tradesmen.”

Sir John sobered instantly. “I advise you strongly not to do so, Rollo. I would not post-obit the old girl under any circumstances. Life is not so short that you cannot afford to wait one more season, but if it should get back to your aunt that you have traded on the prospect of her death, who’s to say that she might not get offended and change her bequest. Women can take queer offences.” He shrugged philosophically.

Mr. Rollo looked disturbed. “I had not thought of that, Sir John. I am most sincerely in your debt for having warned me. And you are right, of course. One more year will not make such a difference that I should risk all. And besides,” he added, “I am not so much in debt that I cannot hunt with reasonable frequency.”

Sophie’s little voice proved to have spoken wisely, for as long as the ladies remained at table, Sir John and Mr. Rollo talked about hunting. They discussed everything from the best ground cover for pheasants to the desirable qualities in brood mares. And engrossed as he was by these topics, Mr. Rollo must have forgotten the ladies’ presence entirely, for he did not once turn in their direction until Lady Corby rose to leave the table. Then, without apology for ignoring them so long, he rose also and bowed.

“I hope you will join us in the parlour afterward, Mr. Rollo,” said Lady Corby. “Perhaps we can entertain you with a game of whist. I’m afraid we did not bring our pianoforte to Town, or Sophia would gladly have played for you.”

“I shall come with all eagerness. Lady Corby,” their guest promised, “although Miss Corby’s playing will be sadly missed. Perhaps she will do me the honour of playing once for me in Leicestershire.” He smiled at Sophie condescendingly.

Sophie inclined her head, though she doubted privately if, when once in Leicestershire, Mr. Rollo would have much inclination for music. She and her mother then swept gracefully from the table and withdrew to the parlour.Lady Corby seated herself by the fire, which had just been lighted by the parlourmaid, and took up her embroidery. She did not speak at first, but presently, looking over her work at Sophie, she smiled reminiscently and said, “I must admit to being pleasantly surprised with our guest this evening. He seems to be a well-cultivated young man,” she said on a leading note.

“Ye—es,” Sophie responded with uncertainty.

“He rather reminds me of your father as a young man,” her mother confided. “He was so strong and handsome.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

Sophie could not help but be alarmed at the comparison. She reflected for a moment before asking hesitantly, “Mama, have you never wished that Papa were perhaps less interested in sport and more inclined to spend time with you?”

Her mother’s smile faded as she put down her needlework. “Sophie,” she said gently, “I must caution you not to be too romantic in your notions of marriage. You will find that men are but human. Why, the first time I saw your father astride a horse, as dashing as he seemed—almost as handsome as the Prince Regent was then—1 thought I had met someone of heroic proportions. But that was a fairy-tale dream.”

Then Lady Corby added kindly, “But I do not mean to sadden you. Once you have children you will have your hands and your heart so full that you will scarcely notice whether your husband is with you or not.

“We just must be certain that you are marrying someone who will live within his means. He may have his stables and his coverts so long as he provides for you and your children. That should be your primary concern, and your father and I will try to make certain of it.”

Sophie listened with swelling dismay. It saddened her to think that having children should be the only pleasure in marriage. Her mother had just admitted as much in reference to her own. She pondered before asking, “But what if I marry a man who has no wish to set up his stable?”

Lady Corby had just begun to stitch a new piece, but her hand stopped when Sophie uttered this question. “Not wish to... ?” she began, and then paused. She laughed uncertainly. “Why, I never have given thought to such a circumstance,” said Lady Corby finally.  “After all, your father and my father and my grand-father. ... I don’t suppose I have known of any such men. But I have nothing to say against it. Of course, your father might find it hard to reconcile to having a son-in-law who showed so little interest in hunting, but perhaps he would not mind so much if the gentleman had a splendid fortune. Not set up his stable...” she trailed off, lost in wonder.

Sophie did not interrupt her mother’s stitching again for she had her own thoughts to absorb her. She took up a basket of mending and worked at it sporadically between daydreams.

From time to time, the sound of laughter or a song would come from the dining room, but the gentlemen showed no signs of joining them in the parlour. Finally, when the clock struck eleven o’clock, Sophie and her mother distinctly heard the familiar scream, or view-halloo, which, for Sir John at least, was a sure indication that more than four bottles of port had been drunk. Laying down her work with a sigh. Lady Corby rose to her feet.“Come along, my dear,” she said with resignation. “I fear the gentlemen will not be joining us this evening.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Having come to London very rarely in the course of their marriage, the Corbys had few near acquaintances in Town. Lady Corby and Sophie had been to visit those that Lady Corby could call upon as friends of her girlhood, some of whom she had written intermittently over the years. But she found that twenty years had done much to soften the ties of old friendship and few of these ladies could be counted on to help her introduce her daughter into society. Consequently, it was with total dependence that she turned to her greatest hope of presenting Sophie in the proper style. Almack’s.

It might be thought that a family so long buried in the country would not have the connections to aspire to admittance to such an exclusive assemblage. But Sir John was confident. This was one accomplishment for which Sophie and her mother had to rely on him completely. Sir John had made the best of all possible connections for them in the field in Leicestershire, both the fourth Lord Jersey and the present earl when he was Lord Villiers, whose wife was now the greatest hostess in London.

Armed with this introduction, Lady Corby and Sophie had called upon the Countess and found her to be as gay, imperious and energetic as everyone described her. She agreed to give Sophie her approval, and the two ladies returned home hopeful of receiving applications for vouchers within a few days.

Lady Corby was more delighted at the prospect, however, than her daughter was. Although Sophie agreed that admission to Almack’s would afford her the best possible introduction to society and to acceptable young men, there was still a part of her that wanted nothing to do with the social set. For, while she could be lively when her interest was aroused, Sophie was still a private person. She spent a great deal of time daydreaming and composing her poetry. Her difference from her brothers and sister, though based on taste rather than temperament, had been clear enough to isolate her from her boisterous surroundings. And a London crowd held as much potential discomfort for her as the crowd at the Corbys’ own dinner table.

So it was at times with a feeling of being sent to the gallows that Sophie faced such a grand introduction to the world.

But she might have spared herself the anxiety, for the response was not what the Corbys had expected. They were seated in the parlour, a few days after having made their call upon Lady Jersey, when a message was sent round from the Countess herself. Sir John was reading his paper when the note was brought in by the footman, but he put it aside and prepared to listen smugly while Lady Corby read it.

“Open it up, Clarissa,” he said grandly, “and we’ll see what her ladyship has to say to her papa-in-law’s old friend.”

Lady Corby opened the note with an expectant smile on her face, but it quickly vanished. “Oh, dear,” she said in dismay.

“What is it?” Sir John asked.

Lady Corby looked up from the letter. “It says that she regrets very much that she was not able to persuade the other patronesses to agree to Sophie’s admittance. The letter sounds as if she is sincerely sorry,” added Lady Corby, turning to Sophie. “I am sorry, too, my dear. I had hoped her patronage would be sufficient, but I’m afraid it was not.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Sir John, jumping to his feet in a rage. “That woman’s supposed to be the queen of society. Let me see that letter.” He took it quickly from Lady Corby’s outstretched hand and perused it rapidly. Sophie was experiencing a full range of emotions, from relief to a surprising degree of disappointment. She had not realized how much she had looked forward to the assemblies as an answer to the tedium of her restricted life. Having finished the letter, her father said in disgusted tones, “‘Regrets,’ fiddle! I imagine she just didn’t want to put herself out. Damned Whig!”

“Am I interrupting something?” asked a familiar voice. Sophie, who had been watching her father, turned quickly to find Tony standing with his customary air of ease in the open doorway. His expression was one of polite concern, but Sophie detected a suppressed smile that told her Sir John’s last remark had not gone unheard. But glad as she was to see him, Sophie regretted his bad timing and winced at the irritated expression that had instantly appeared on her father’s face.

Smothering the retort he truly wished to make, Sir John managed a curt welcome. “Oh, it is you, sir, is it?” he growled. “You are, perhaps, catching us at a bad time. We have just received some rather unwelcome tidings and will have to discuss how best to deal with the matter.” His tone was not inviting.

But Tony, seemingly insensitive to undercurrents, entered the room, anyway.

“I am sorry to hear that, Sir John,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to be of service?”

Sir John’s irritation escaped its bounds, and he let forth a loud snort. “That is not very likely, sir. If my influence is not enough to get Sophia into Almack’s—after years of hunting the Quorn with Hugo Meynell’s pack—then I don’t think anyone’s is. Why, I shall never forget following Lord Jersey’s lead when he and Cecil Forester, as he then was, rode right up to the hounds and took their fences flying.” Sir John momentarily forgot the issue at hand in appreciation of the remembrance. His frown of irritation faded, and he winked at Tony with the knowledge of an insider.

“Mind you,” he said confidentially, “Meynell was not at all pleased with their form of hunting. Called it ‘their racing ideas.’ But he couldn’t do it, you see. He rode too heavily and wasn’t up to the jumps. I half-suspect it was the change in form that led him to give up the pack. Said he hadn’t enjoyed a moment of the hunt since it became the thing.” Sir John shook his head sympathetically.

“But you were not of the same mind I take it?” said Tony, quite willing to help Sir John out of his bad temper.

He was rewarded by a chuckle. “No, not I,” admitted Sophie’s father. “But I was a much younger man than Meynell, you see. And that sort of daring was very appealing to me. Now, of course, everybody hunts that way. Adds challenge to the sport.”

“I can see that it would,” agreed Tony.

It was an ill-judged comment, for it served to remind Sir John to whom he was speaking. And that led instantly to the matter of Lady Jersey’s note.

Frowning once again, Sir John turned back to the message he was holding and slapped the paper with the back of one hand. “And this is the return I get for going against Hugo Meynell, it seems. Lady Jersey does not see her way to admitting my daughter to Almack’s. That is what comes of hunting with Whigs and the like. I suppose I have been well served.” He tossed the letter down on a table and walked back to his seat, taking up a newspaper to avoid conversing further with Tony.