The Arrangement: Number 2 in series (Survivors' Club) Page 5

  He had once been plain Vincent Hunt, and Sophia had weaved stories about him. He had been a leader among the youth of the village, good at all sports and the ringleader of all mischief. One night, for example, after Sir Clarence had boasted of a red carpet he had walked across to enter some grand house in London, he had painted the steps outside the front doors of Barton Hall a scarlet red.

  Now he was a very grand gentleman with a different, imposing name. And he was a very well-mannered gentleman too. He scarcely stopped smiling and making polite, noncommittal replies to all the pomposity that was being said to him despite the fact that Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence were almost openly and really quite embarrassingly courting him, and Henrietta was simpering. It was actually rather hard to simper effectively before a blind man, but she was doing quite well at it.

  When the conversation finally threatened to flag, Henrietta was sent to the pianoforte to dazzle the viscount with her talent on the keyboard. And then she was directed to sing as she played and went through a repertoire of five songs before remembering that the music for the sixth, her particular favorite, was in her mother’s private sitting room, where she had been practicing earlier in the day.

  “Go up and fetch it,” her mother said, turning her head in Sophia’s direction.

  “Yes, aunt,” Sophia murmured as she got to her feet.

  And she was aware of Viscount Darleigh, a look of slight surprise on his face as he raised his eyebrows and turned his eyes her way. She would have sworn he was looking directly at her, though she knew it could not be so. But for that moment, before she left the room, she felt a little less anonymous than usual. And she found, before she reached the staircase, that she was scurrying rather than walking like a dignified lady.

  They had not, of course, been introduced.

  “When you stepped into the drawing room with me,” Vincent asked as the carriage swayed its way over the short distance between Barton Hall and Covington House, “was there someone else there in addition to Sir Clarence and Lady March and Miss March?”

  “Hmm.” There was a pause, during which Martin was presumably thinking. “Apart from the butler, you mean?”

  “A woman,” Vincent said.

  “I can’t say I noticed,” Martin told him.

  “Someone was sent for more music,” Vincent said, “and she said yes, aunt before going. It was the first and last I heard of her all evening. She must walk very softly, for I did not hear her return, though the music certainly arrived. She was obviously not a servant. She called Lady March aunt. But we were not introduced. Is that not strange?”

  “A poor relation?” Martin suggested.

  “I daresay,” Vincent agreed. “But it would have been good manners to introduce her to a guest anyway, would it not?”

  “Not necessarily if you were a March,” Martin said.

  “Go up and fetch it, her aunt told her when Miss March wanted the music,” Vincent said. “There was no please. And, worse, there was no name.”

  “Hmm,” Martin said. “You are not betrothed yet by any chance, are you?”

  “Eh?”

  “They have serious designs on you,” Martin told him. “Be warned. The servants are not very close-lipped in that house, a sure sign the Marches don’t inspire a great deal of loyalty.”

  “Serious designs,” Vincent said. “Yes, I believe the servants may be right about that. I shall tread with great care during the coming days. In particular, if I should happen to hear the fateful words I understand and I do not mind come from Miss March’s lips, I shall flee to the tip of Land’s End.”

  “You had better have a boat with you,” Martin said. “That might not be far enough.”

  They were home already. What a very strange day it had been. He had arrived here before dawn with the happy idea of relaxing quietly for a few days and doing some serious thinking before going back home to Middlebury Park to take command of the rest of his life. And then—

  He laughed as Handry set down the steps of the carriage and he climbed down outside his front door without assistance.

  “Miss Waddell and her welcoming committees,” he said.

  “I was upset you did not invite me to come and listen to the vicar’s welcome,” Martin said.

  They both snorted with laughter.

  “Actually, you know,” Vincent said as he made his way up the steps to the front door, “it was touching. They were all so much a part of the fabric of our childhood, Martin. And kindlier, more well-meaning people one could not hope to encounter. It is unkind of us to laugh at them, except that our laughter is well meant too. We were fortunate to grow up here.”

  “That we were,” Martin agreed cheerfully. “There are some of Mam’s cakes left, sir. Would you like one or two with a drink?”

  “Hot milk, if there is some, please, Martin,” Vincent said, making his way to the sitting room. “And one cake, please. Your mother has certainly not lost her touch, has she? One of her cakes is worth four of anyone else’s.”

  Goodness, he must be feeling nostalgic. What had he just asked for? Hot milk?

  He was actually glad he had been discovered here. He had been a bit ashamed or embarrassed or … or something to be seen blind like this when these people had known him as he used to be. But that had been foolish of him. His morning visitors had been kind and, solicitous though they had been over his blindness, they had still treated him as a thinking, functioning adult. They had been happy to reminisce about the past, when his father was schoolmaster here and his mother was active in the church and the community and Vincent and his sisters had been growing up with all the other village children and getting into all sorts of mischief with them. Vincent too had been happy to remember and had joined in the conversation with some enthusiasm.

  He sighed as he sat back in his chair by the fireplace. Dash it, but he was tired. Tired without having even exercised today. That, no doubt, was part of the problem.

  And tomorrow evening there was to be an assembly at the Foaming Tankard. Vincent grinned as he remembered the petition Miss Waddell had coaxed eleven people to sign protesting the name of the inn when it changed hands—Vincent must have been about six at the time. The inn had once been the respectably named Rose and Crown.

  An assembly.

  In his honor.

  He tipped back his head and laughed aloud. Who but the citizens of Barton Coombs would put on a dance for a blind man?

  He must not relax too much into this unexpectedly pleasant interlude, though, he thought as Martin brought in his milk and cake. For Sir Clarence March had made it perfectly clear that his daughter would welcome a marriage proposal from him, and Lady March had extolled her daughter’s virtues and accomplishments. Miss March herself had simpered. They all meant to have him, and what the Marches wanted, they often got, though they had obviously failed miserably with a few dozen dukes and marquesses and earls—were there that many in existence, even if one included the married ones?

  He was going to have to watch himself.

  Henrietta March had been exquisitely pretty as a girl and had shown promise of extraordinary beauty when Vincent last saw her. She must have been about fifteen at the time. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and shapely, and she had always been fashionably, expensively clad in clothes made by a dressmaker—or modiste in Sir Clarence’s vocabulary—who came down from London twice a year. Miss March had always had a French nurse and a French governess, and had never mingled with the children of the village. The closest she had ever come to conversing with them was at her birthday parties, when she stood in a receiving line with her mama and papa and nodded and murmured graciously in acknowledgment of the birthday greetings of all those who filed respectfully by.

  Vincent might have felt sorry for her if she had not embraced haughtiness and an air of superiority quite independently of her parents. And his guess was that she had not changed. Certainly she had shown no sign of it this evening. That music her mother had sent for had arrived, but she had not u
ttered a word of thanks to the mystery woman who had brought it. Her cousin?

  Who was she? She had not even been introduced to him or been included in any of the conversation. Her only spoken words all evening had been yes, aunt. But she must have been there all the time.

  He felt rather indignant on her behalf, whoever she was. She was apparently a member of the family, yet she had been ignored except when there was an errand to be run. She had sat all evening as quiet as a mouse.

  It ought not to bother him.

  He reached for his glass of milk, having finished the cake, and drained it.

  Good Lord, it had been a ghastly evening. The conversation had been pompous and insipid, the music less than distinguished. While he might happily have endured both if the Marches had been amiable people whom he had once liked, he felt no guilt about looking back on the evening with a shudder of distaste. If he had returned to the village today as plain Vincent Hunt, they would not have deigned to recognize his existence. Did a title make all the difference?

  It was a rhetorical question.

  It was time for bed.

  He wondered how long it would be before his mother was informed of his whereabouts. He would wager that at least a dozen letters had been written and sent on their way today. Everyone would want the distinction of being the first to tell her.

  4

  There had been several assemblies since Sophia came to Barton Hall to live, but her uncle and aunt and cousin had not attended any of them. It would have been far beneath their dignity to make an appearance and to dance at the Foaming Tankard Inn even if attendance had been reserved to those with some claim to gentility. But village assemblies would not have been worth holding if they had not been open to anyone who cared to go. The thought of rubbing shoulders with a farm laborer or the butcher or the blacksmith was enough to give Aunt Martha the vapors, she had once declared.

  Hence Sophia had never attended any of the assemblies either.

  All that was about to change, though. For tonight’s assembly was in honor of Viscount Darleigh, and Sir Clarence and Aunt Martha had decided that somehow, by fair means or foul, Henrietta was going to become Viscountess Darleigh of Middlebury Park in Gloucestershire with twenty thousand pounds or so a year at her disposal. Since last evening Henrietta herself had done a complete about-face and now declared that the viscount was by far the most handsome, most genteel, most charming, most everything else that was wonderful of all the gentlemen she had ever met. He had certainly changed since the days when he had been “that horrid Vincent Hunt.”

  “Tonight you must seize your chance in both hands, my love,” Aunt Martha said, “for we do not know how long Viscount Darleigh plans to stay at Covington House. He will not dance, of course. You must refuse to dance too, for of course there will be no one else there worth dancing with, and you must spend the time talking with him. If the weather holds—and it looks as if it is going to be a beautiful day—you must suggest a stroll in the outdoors. The assembly rooms are certain to be stuffy. And you must be sure to keep him outside long enough that people will remark upon it. And remark upon it they will, for as the guest of honor he will have everyone’s attention focused upon him. He will feel obliged to do the decent thing, you may be sure, and call upon Papa tomorrow morning, for everyone will expect it of him, and he surely values the good opinion of his former neighbors.”

  “Your mother will plan a summer wedding,” Sir Clarence added, clasping the lapels of his coat with both hands and looking pleased with the world. “Perhaps in London with half the ton in attendance. Though almost everyone leaves town in the summer, I am sure they would return for such an illustrious event.”

  Sophia was going to the assembly too. She had not been told she might go, and she had not asked. But the village assemblies were for everyone. No invitations were sent out. She was going to go even if she had to walk to the inn. In fact, that was what she would do anyway, for if Aunt Martha knew she intended to go, she might try to stop her. They could not stop her from going if she was already there, could they? And how could they even express annoyance afterward when everyone else would be there too? And it was not as if she was going to create a scene. She would be going strictly as an observer. She would find an obscure corner and fade into it. She was an expert at that.

  She was going to go. Her heart thudded in her chest as soon as the decision had been made while she was sitting at the breakfast table, for she never went anywhere. Not to any social event, anyway. She had gone to London for the last two Seasons, for the simple reason that she could not very well have been left alone at Barton Hall. But she had not attended any of the parties or concerts or balls her aunt and Henrietta had gone to every day. How could she? Aunt Martha had said on the only occasion she had alluded to the fact. It was hard enough being the sister and niece of a gentleman who had been killed in a duel for cuckolding an earl, a shocking and humiliating event that had only been the final chapter in a less than illustrious career. They would never be able to hold up their heads if they were seen to be harboring his daughter, especially when she looked as she did.

  Sophia had one dress that was marginally suitable for evening wear. It had been made for Henrietta when she was fourteen or fifteen and had been worn once, to her birthday party that year. It had not needed to be altered quite as much as the other hand-me-downs that had come Sophia’s way. It was a pink-and-cream striped muslin and still had some shape even after Sophia had shortened it and taken it in at the seams. It was not ravishingly pretty, and its design was no doubt woefully out of date, but this was no grand London ball that she was going to attend. It was a village assembly. There would surely be other women more plainly dressed than she, or at least as plainly.

  She walked to the Foaming Tankard after the other three had left in the carriage, thankful that it was neither a cold nor a wet night. Nor windy. She felt rather excited.

  She did not expect to dance, of course. Or to converse. Nobody knew her in Barton Coombs even after two years. She had never been introduced to anyone and had only ever received some genial nods after church on Sundays. But all she really wanted to do anyway was watch people interacting and having fun.

  Oh, and—admit it, Sophia!—to see the beautiful Viscount Darleigh again. To worship from afar.

  And to make sure, if she possibly could, that Henrietta, aided and abetted by her mama and papa, did not trap him into any compromising situation that would compel him as an honorable man into marrying her. She had never cared about the other gentlemen they had tried to ensnare in London. They had been perfectly capable of looking after themselves, she had always thought, and events had always proved her correct. But was Lord Darleigh as capable? If he was lured outside the inn, would he know if he was led away out of sight of other guests? And would he know that Sir Clarence and Lady March would make good and sure that everyone else noticed the length and impropriety of his absence with their daughter?

  It took considerable courage to step inside the inn when she got there and ascend the stairs to the assembly rooms, from which a great deal of noise was spilling down to the ground floor and out onto the street. It sounded as if a merry jig was in progress and as if every inhabitant of the village and its neighborhood was trying to talk to every other inhabitant in a voice loud enough to be heard. And it sounded as if every listener—if there was anyone left to listen—was finding the conversation brilliantly funny and was showing appreciation by laughing uproariously.

  Sophia almost turned about and scurried home.

  But she reminded herself that she was not really a mouse. And that she was, in fact, a lady, and socially at least on a level with more than half the people here. She was not even sure she was naturally shy. She had never had the chance to find out.

  She went on up.

  She was confronted by the vicar almost as soon as she passed through the doorway. He beamed at her and extended his right hand.

  “I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance, ma’am,�
�� he bellowed above the music and the conversation and the laughter. “But may I presume upon the fact that you have sat in a pew in my church every Sunday for a couple of years or so and listened most attentively to my sermons, which put all too many of my parishioners to sleep, alas? I am Parsons, as you must know. And you are—?”

  Sophia set her hand within his. “Sophia Fry, sir.”

  “Miss Fry.” He patted the back of her hand with his free one. “Let me have Mrs. Parsons pour you a glass of lemonade.”

  And he led her past crowds of revelers to a table laden with food and drink. He introduced her to his wife, who nodded genially, tried to say something, and shrugged and widened her eyes and laughed when it became obvious that it was impossible to make herself heard.

  Sophia took her glass and went to find a corner of the room to sit in. Well, that had been easier than expected, she thought, sinking gratefully onto a vacant chair. Her aunt was some distance away—there was no mistaking her nodding royal blue plumes—and was gazing at her in some astonishment. Sophia pretended not to notice her. Aunt Martha could not really send her home, could she? And she would be quite happy to be a mouse for the rest of the evening. Well, almost happy. Sometimes her capacity for self-deception disturbed her.

  One couple pranced down between the lines, while the dancers who formed those lines clapped vigorously in time to the music. It all looked very jolly. Sophia found that one of her feet was tapping out the rhythm.

  It was not easy to see Viscount Darleigh, but it was very obvious that he had arrived. There was a particularly dense crowd of people just to the left of the door, mostly ladies, all focused happily upon someone who was lost in their midst. Sir Clarence was one of the few gentlemen there, and both Aunt Martha and Henrietta were doing their share of fawning. Who else would they be fawning over than the viscount? And she was quite right. After Sophia had been watching for several minutes, the set of country dances came to an end, the dancers drifted off the floor, the dense cluster by the door opened as if it were yet another door, and Henrietta emerged triumphant, on the arm of Viscount Darleigh, whom she proceeded to maneuver in a promenade about the perimeter of the assembly room.