“Mother was slow to recover, and when she had, I believe that they’d grown too accustomed to not having me underfoot. They might have wished me back, but based on Mother’s sparse letters, I believe she assumed Grandfather brought me out and was introducing me to society in Bristol. When they learned the truth, they threatened to force me home, but Grandfather must have intervened, because they never did.”
Andrew’s brows pulled together. Sophie’s parents had shared a great deal of news about her—her infamous marriageto a wealthy, titled man, a part of that—but never had they mentioned her studying under such a master. It frustrated him to know how little they celebrated their daughter’s talents.
Sophie’s hand darted up, swiping under her eye.
Andrew offered his handkerchief. “Are you well?”
She gave a watery smile. “I do apologize. Speaking of Grandfather always makes me rather teary. He passed last summer.”
His jaw tightened. “I am sorry.” He knew the pain of loss acutely.
She nodded. “As am I. But it is not worth dwelling on. He gave me this life, and I intend to live it to its fullest.”
Confusion ate at Andrew. This time that she was recounting should have included how she’d met her husband. As much as Andrew did not want a retelling of the romance—his stomach twisted at the very thought—she’d not even mentioned the man, and something sat oddly about that.
She’d mentioned him before, though, over the last few nights… hadn’t she?
The carriage slowed to a stop, and Andrew glanced out to see the white stone of his family’s townhouse. He helped Sophie out, of the carriage, and then into his home, her featherlight hold on his arm distracting him as they entered the house.
His housekeeper took over once Andrew explained the situation, and Andrew was left with only a smile thrown over Sophie’s shoulder as she went to change into warm, dry clothing.
Blast, how was he to survive another week and a half of this? He was quickly falling apart.
Chapter Eight
She had never properly appreciated warmth until that afternoon. Mrs. Spencer had drawn her a bath and taken away her near-ruined clothing. And now, ensconced in a warm dress and dry gloves, Sophie felt she could conquer the world.
Visiting hours were certainly past, but with this euphoric feeling, she ought to try her hand once more at Mr. Whitcomb.
She had nearly reached the foot of the stairs, taking the last three at a skip, when a knock sounded on the door. Andrew’s butler nodded at Sophie before opening it.
Sophie intended to pass by, but the voice sounded familiar and feminine. Curiosity pulled at her, and she hovered by the stairs, trying to place it.
“Mr. Langford should be expecting a visit from us—is he at home?”
“If you will give me a moment, I shall inquire.” The butler stepped back, revealing the women behind him, and Sophie froze, trapped.
“Sophia Renard—that cannot possibly be you!”
It had been years since someone had referred to her by her full name. It would have been jarring even without the fear accompanying the vision of two women from her home village standing in Andrew’s doorway. Sophie took a halting step forward, mind whirling for an excuse for why she was in Andrew’s home, but Mrs. Haverwick simply rushed on in her garrulous way.
“Or, I suppose it cannot be Renard any longer—now, what was it…” She turned to her daughter, then cut off as she lifted a hand to Miss Haverwick’s bonnet. “Oh gracious, the wind has done a number on your trimmings, Eleanor.” Her gaze swung back to Sophie. “You know my Eleanor, yes?”
“Yes, of course. How do you do, Miss Haverwick?” Sophie mumbled, curtseying.
The butler looked between them both, his mouth showing concern. But the blessed servant took the situation swiftly in hand, saying, “If you ladies will, I would be happy to see you to the drawing room.”
Mrs. Haverwick brightened, gaze swinging back to the man. “Delightful. Yes.” She pushed into the home, her daughter, Eleanor, at her side. “Sophia, how wonderful that we should happen to time our visits so that we might catch up with you as well. Though—” the woman’s sharp eyes swept over Sophie, and Sophie’s breath hitched, “—some might consider it rather inappropriate of you to visit a man unchaperoned.” She tsked good-naturedly, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “I shall not say a word. Even more fortuitous that we should have arrived together.”
The woman thought Sophie was just here for a social call. That was good—her breath came a little more easily. They would need to keep it that way, if possible. And give her reason not to mention this supposed visit to anyone.
As though they were a flock of unruly sheep, the butler herded them into the drawing room, Mrs. Haverwick talking nonstop, her daughter piping in whenever she could manage a word, and Sophie attempting to smile, nod, and respond when a question was asked and not immediately run over by a second.
Eleanor Haverwick was four or five years Sophie’s junior and sat herself beside Sophie on the chaise, grasping her hand as though they were longtime friends.
“It has been far too long—I must hear everything. Your parents were not particularly forthcoming with the details.”
That was not surprising—they would not wish to expound on Sophie’s academic escapades. They never had, even before they’d decided she was far too bookish.
