“Stay,” Sophie said, not giving ground or allowing time for Maman to launch into another rebuttal. “Mr. Wethersby wants you to stay as much as I do. So does Nash.” She decided to use the last possible weapon that might convince her mother to remain in London. “What if I am with child? I will need you here to help me.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes the slightest bit. She meandered closer, then slowly walked around Sophie, studying her from every angle.
Sophie clenched her teeth, forcing herself not to fidget. Maman could sniff out a falsehood better than any hound on a hunt.
“When you do discover yourself blessed to be in the family way,” her mother said, “I shall return well before my grandchild arrives. Do not lie about such things, Sophie. It is bad luck.” She softened the scolding with a smile. “I have delayed returning to Calais as long as I am willing. Without me here in the house, you and your husband will have the privacy you need to grow closer and, if you are very fortunate, forge the kind of love your papa and I had.” Her smile turned somewhat cynical. “And Mr. Wethersby is coming with me—even though I advised him his efforts are wasted.”
“He is quite smitten with you.” Sophie hated to see Nash’s friend crushed, but she hated seeing her mother’s loneliness even more.
“The man will eventually come to his senses and find a young woman who can give him children,” Maman said quietly. “I find my own company pleasant enough after all these years and have no desire to watch pity and revulsion replace the admiration in his eyes as I age.”
Sophie caught hold of her mother’s hands, not knowing any other reason that might change her mind. “Please stay, Maman. Please? It is almost August, and crossing the channel will be safe enough, but with fall and then winter coming—it could become too treacherous for you to return before spring. Please stay.”
Her mother’s expression hardened. “If I stay, the attacks upon you will not stop.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I have dealt with these situations before and will be better suited to deal with this one from Calais.”
Sophie released her mother’s hands and widened her stance as if ready to come to blows. “That argument makes no sense at all. If you can only suitably deal with this from Calais, then why did we come to London in the first place? Why did we not attack the matter from France?”
“We had to protect Her Majesty, and you know that. Do not attempt to trap me with my own words.” Maman strode over to the bellpull and yanked on it. “We are done here, child. I love you, and it is because of that love that I am leaving this afternoon. This conversation is over. You may leave immediately.” Her mouth tightened into a hard, displeased line that warned any further argument would be most unpleasant.
Sophie managed a nod, then left the room without another word. She hadn’t been dismissed from her mother’s presence because of her parent’s anger since the time she had accidentally shot another student at the academy. The bullet had only grazed the poor young man, but Maman had been incensed, and rightly so. Sophie had ignored instructions, and someone was hurt because of her carelessness.
Rather than go to the parlor, she went down to her workroom. After lighting a single candle, she dropped into the worn leather chair in the corner. Perhaps she could think better in the shadows.
It was the end of July, almost August, and nothing had happened since the shooting well over a month ago. No threatening messages. No lurking strangers. Nothing. Perhaps the man spotted by Mr. Wallace had only been an assistant to the marksman and took off to save himself. Even so, an uneasiness had remained in the air, an eerie quiet—almost like waiting for the unknown evil to exhale. But couldn’t that merely be because they were all so obsessed with the frustrating situation?
“Sophie?” Nash’s deep voice echoed through the dimly lit room.
“I am over here. In the corner.”
He lit the rest of the tapers on the candelabrum in the middle of the worktable, then joined her. “And why have you put yourself in the corner, my love? And in the dark, no less?”
“I had hoped it would help me think.” A disgusted groan escaped her. “She is going. This afternoon. There is nothing I can say or do to delay her further. It’s a wonder she remained here this long.”
He pulled up a stool and sat beside her. “Merritt will keep her safe.”
“She will never allow herself to love him. She told me so herself.” The entire situation lay heavy on Sophie’s heart, making it hard to breathe. “She doesn’t want to watch his love turn to pity and then revulsion. Her words. Not mine. Well, she didn’t sayhis love. She called itadmiration.”
Nash took her hand like he always did whenever trying to console her. “He will still keep her safe, and as for the other, we have to let them sort that out for themselves.”
“I don’t want to let them sort it out for themselves. I want her to stay here and allow herself to love Merritt, and for all of us to live happily ever after.”
“It is never that simple, dear one.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Life is more like a war to survive, and we must makeourselves happy by winning one battle at a time and celebrating each victory as it comes. That is what enables us to persevere through difficult times.”
She scowled at him, knowing he spoke the truth, but hating it just the same. “When she leaves, I will be the mistress of this house, and that terrifies me.”
The golden glow of the candlelight shone upon his confused frown. “Why? From what I have seen, she always leaves the running of the household to you. You usually instruct Thornton and his wife on all matters.”
“You misunderstand. It is not so much the running of the house that bothers me. I know I am the countess now—even though I should be the earl.” Guilt pinched her for her pettiness, but it was true. Had she been born a male, she would have been the earl. “I am the countess now,” she repeated, pushing through her guilt. “I am the lady of the house, your wife, and someday, maybe, a mother. I do not excel at those roles as well as I do espionage, horsemanship, and weaponry. With Maman here, I am still the daughter, the child who plays at those things whenever it suits her. Sort of, anyway.” She allowed herself another groan, even though she hated sounding like such a petulant ninny. “I suppose you find me a spoiled, selfish wife and most disappointing. I am sorry and ashamed of being the way I am.”
“I find you honest and never disappointing.” He offered her an endearing, lopsided smile. “Did you ever pause to think that maybe the true reason your mother is returning to Calais is because she feels the need to push you, her beloved fledgling, out into the world? She knows you will not only fly but soar.”
Rather than admit he might be right, she rolled her eyes. “Why must you always compare me to some sort of bird?”
“Because you have the spirit of a bird, my dear one. The courage of an eagle, sauciness of a wren, and the loveliness of a swan.” He grinned. “Andsometimeseven the wisdom of an owl.”
