***
Until Simon saw Sophia emerge from her room wearing her new ball gown, he had not realised just how beautiful she was. He had always thought her features pleasing, and would certainly have described her as pretty without hesitation, but the vision that confronted him now was something entirely out of the ordinary.
For a moment he was struck dumb, so that she laughed and said, “Well? Do I pass muster, Mr Payne?”
“Pass muster?” he cried, startled into speech. “You must know that if you walked into Almack’s this minute, you would shine down every other lady present.”
“Would I?” she said shyly, blushing a little. “It is a beautiful gown, is it not?”
“It is the lady who adorns it who is beautiful,” he said. “You are incomparable, my love.”
“What a lovely compliment! Those flowers you are in danger of squashing — are they for me?”
“Oh…” He looked vaguely down at the beribboned posy he clutched, having forgotten he was holding it. Now he thrust it towards her. “I… I think they are not too crushed, but you drive every rational thought from my head.”
She giggled, took the posy and tucked her arm in his. “Shall we go down, my soon to be husband?”
Wordlessly, for speech was extraordinarily difficult just then, he turned and escorted her to the stairs.
He could not remember ever enjoying an evening so much. Even though the last few months had been a continuous succession of wonderful evenings, and there was the promise of even better to come, yet he felt that there was something magical about the Staineybank ball. Sophia’s pleasure in the dance was a large part of it, of course, and he spent his time following her about, sketch book in hand, attempting to capture the gracefulness of her movements and the lightness with which she executed the steps.
Yet Sophia was not the whole of it. Whether her enthusiasm had infected everyone else or whether it was the beauty of the Marble Hall that created the joyous atmosphere, there was no doubt that the evening was unlike any other. Apart from Simon, everyone danced, even the duke, once, with the duchess. She, having finally left off her mourning weeds for her dead son, stood up for every dance. The Merrington sisters, naturally, didthe same. Even Juliet and Mr Godley, neither of them keen dancers, took part. It was wonderful to watch.
At supper, the duke and duchess sat beside Simon and Sophia.
“Ready for married life, you two?” the duke said genially.
“Oh, yes,” they said in unison.
“You have a wedding trip planned, my dear duchess tells me.”
“My brother is lending us his Shropshire house for a se’nnight or so, but we cannot stay away long. I must be back when the builder arrives.”
“Ah, Rowena’s orangery! That is going to be something very special when it is done,” the duke said with satisfaction. “It will be mentioned in all the guide books.‘The gallery bridge and orangery, designed by Payne, is something quite out of the ordinary way, and well worth visiting.’Something like that. We shall be inundated with travellers wishing to view it.”
Simon laughed. “We shall see. But I am afraid we shall be under your feet for some time to come yet, until it is finished.”
“No need to rush away. So long as my lovely duchess is pleased to be friends with the Miss Merringtons, they are welcome to stay here to keep her happy and amused, and that goes for Mr and Mrs Simon Payne, too. Besides, Richard is my heir and you are his family, so you have a home here for as long as you want.”
“You are all goodness, your grace,” Simon murmured. “And does that apply to Juliet, too? She loves it here, and we have been together for so long that we should hate to be separated now.”
“Ah, Juliet reminds me of her mother, and I have fond memories of her, so of course she may stay. Do you think her mother might pay a visit here, if I were to extend the invitation? I should love to see her again, and reminisce about our glory daysof years ago, and gloat over all our contemporaries who are fat or insane or dead.”
Simon grimaced. “I am not sure that Juliet wishes to meet Mrs Granville again, and I am certain that I do not.”
“Well, well, I shall perhaps see her in town one of these days. If Richard and Rowena go up for the season next spring, I shall go with them to introduce them about a bit. Perhaps Mrs So-called Granville will be there. Ah, Cecilia! What a girl she was in her heyday! Ah, more champagne. Thank you, Froggett. So wonderful to have so much to celebrate — Rowena’s daughter, and your wedding, and yet, how strange it is that you were brought here by that peculiar letter, Payne, just as Rowena was, and there she is married to Richard, and now here you are, about to marry Sophia. It is almost as if your coming was meant to be.”
“It was meant to be,” Sophia said. “This mysterious Mr Goodenough, whoever he is, meant it to be. He quite deliberately brought both Rowena and Simon here.”
“And Juliet,” Simon said. “The letter was addressed to her, and not to me.”
“Hammond has a theory about it, did you know that?” the duke said. “He thinks there must be some connection between the two letters, and he thinks he sees it. Rowena is the granddaughter of a woman who scandalised her family by conceiving a child out of wedlock and was driven out of the family as a result. Juliet is the daughter of another woman who scandalised her family and was driven out — divorced. So they are both black sheep, you see. That is the connection, according to Hammond.”
“That is very tenuous,” Simon said.
“And why would this Mr Goodenough even care?” Sophia said. “It is old history, so what is the point of digging it up today?”
“Ah, old history,” the duke said. “It never quite goes away, does it? And all families have their skeletons in cupboards, or their black sheep. So perhaps, if Hammond is right, we will see more of these letters from Mr Goodenough. That would be amusing, would it not?”
