But was this the life he wanted to have?
The conversation deepened and shifted, moving from subject to subject, and Miss Caswell’s hold on his arm loosened. Her attention was so fixed on the other gentlemen that Oliver wandered away, and she did not notice his absence. From a distance, Oliver watched the group and wondered if he would ever have the energy and excitement to match theirs. Anything less and he would be a poor politician indeed.
A life in London. A life lived in the public eye. A life of being written about in the newspapers and traveling from engagement to engagement. The whole idea was merely speculative at this time, yet Oliver already felt his spirit dragging at the thought of the never-ending political swirl.
Yet the good he could do. The change. Miss Caswell’s words repeated in his head, reminding him of all the blessings to be found in such a life. The thought of doing so much good for so many was a siren’s call, begging him to embrace the madness that world required.
Moving to the edge of the hill, Oliver looked out at the fields and forests of Bristow. This was his home. Its beauty wrapped around his heart, filling him with such peace and happiness that Oliver couldn’t imagine being separated from it for so much of the year.
And the people. His tenants and the villagers. A good steward handled much of the estate’s business, but Oliver enjoyed overseeing the day-to-day issues and difficulties. Working with the tenants to alleviate their suffering and improve their lives brought him a sense of satisfaction that no amount of political debate could replace.
But was it selfish to focus solely on those desires and ignore the greater amount of good he might do?
Turning away from the landscape with a heavy heart, Oliver looked over the guests, many of whom were gathered on the blankets and chairs, availing themselves of the feast. His gaze slid over a short distance and found Miss Sophie seated on a blanket alone. The image of her silently watching the rest of the party mirrored the first time they’d met. Standing to the side of the Fitzsimmons’ ballroom, she had been a silent sentinel, watching and waiting but not engaging.
Miss Sophie’s expression was the picture of peace. She sat with her legs curled to one side, the opposite arm propping her up, and her gaze traveled the crowd, constantly observing all that was going on around her. To all outward appearances, she appeared content with her situation, but Oliver felt loneliness emanating from her like a cool breeze. With a gust it enveloped him, settling into his heart as though her pain was his own.
From what she said concerning her family, Oliver suspected she had no close ties to her siblings or parents. And seeing her seated thusly, he wondered if she had many people in her life whom she counted as friends. But she had at least one.
Striding to her blanket, Oliver sat beside her, stretching out his legs and propping himself up on his arms from behind.
“And how is my good friend this lovely afternoon?” he asked.
Miss Sophie’s brows rose, and she turned her gaze to look out at the view. “She is enjoying a fine afternoon out of doors and delicious food.”
“And longing to explore the fields, hunting for more insects to paint?”
Her light blue eyes met his again, and the corners of them crinkled as she smiled. “I assure you I do more with my time than that.”
“A lady with hidden depths, I see,” he teased. “If not for your exploration in naturalism, what would you like to do most right now?”
Miss Sophie’s gaze slanted to the side as she bit on the side of her lip. “If allowed to choose without any respect to reality, I would most love to be out on the water, sailing along the southern coast on a clear day where the sky is sapphire blue and the white cliffs topped with tufts of emerald grass loom overhead.”
Oliver’s brows rose. “That is very specific.”
“I once had the opportunity to sail along the western coast, and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to see the mighty white cliffs of the south from the sea,” said Miss Sophie. “But if I were to answer your question more realistically, I would be curled up under that tree.” She nodded at the largest tree sitting at the crest of the hill. “With a selection of Banbury cakes and a novel.”
“Ah, but what novel?”
Miss Sophie paused, her eyes unfocusing as she thought through her options. “It would depend on my mood. For a bit of tears with a happy ending, I enjoy Charles Dickens. For drama, something likeThe MonkorThe Castle of Otranto. But my latest love is a French serial by the name ofLes Trois Mousquetaires. I stumbled across it a few weeks ago and was lucky to find the very last issue before we left Town. It is an exciting tale of daring swordsmen fighting against a great evil to protect their king and country.”
Oliver chuckled. “I hadn’t expected such an array of dramatic prose.”
“I must balance out the serious books on migration patterns in waterfowl with fanciful tales.”
And with that, they began discussing literature, which led to plays and music. Then on to art. The more they spoke, the more Oliver felt at ease. The conversation was natural and engaging, at times passionate but with a muted quality, as though Miss Sophie felt all the same excitement as Miss Caswell but held it inside rather than releasing it out into the world.
It was unfair to compare the two ladies. Oliver knew it was wrong, yet he couldn’t stop himself as he listened to Miss Sophie speak about her favorite walks through the woods. She described them in such detail, it felt as though he were there. She captured his attention so thoroughly, and Oliver couldn’t help but compare this conversation with the one he’d just left.
Miss Sophie was peace personified. Being with her was like being wrapped in a thick blanket on a winter’s day, watching the snow drift lazily to earth, feeling warm and content and never wishing to leave the beauty of that moment.
Miss Caswell was all brightness and energy. There was a spark of vitality glowing in her heart, which had the power to invigorate and inspire. Being near her was like being swept up in a horse race, the hooves beating a rapid beat against the ground as he held on for dear life, thrilled at the feel of the wind rushing across his face and the power of the horseflesh beneath him, yet with a dash of trepidation that the horse might misstep and spell disaster for them both.
She was a force, commanding those around her with an ease and tenderness that ensured their actions aligned with her end goal—a power she used to further her many causes. Miss Caswell was many wonderful things, but Oliver struggled to picture her sitting thusly and enjoying a beautiful afternoon lounging about and enjoying the splendors of the countryside. As of yet, she hadn’t availed herself of any of the comforts the Nelsons had provided, choosing instead to linger around the politicians.
Giving some undoubtedly witty rejoinder, Miss Caswell had the others laughing, and Oliver was taken with the picture she presented. There was so much good to be found in that dear lady, and the more he came to know her, the more he admired her. And yet the thought of pursuing the future she painted, with a life full of social events and the tangled mess of politics, held little appeal. Oliver liked the idea of effecting that grand change she desired—it was something he longed to see—but those truly successful in politics dedicated their lives to it, and Oliver shuddered at the thought of surrendering the life and responsibilities he had in Bristow.
“Son.”
