Chapter One
January 1814
The letter arrivedon a Monday. It had not been a good day. Mondays never were. After all these years, the memory of that fateful day had still not faded into merciful oblivion. At the thought, Sophia’s breathing tightened, the black silk of her bodice rising and falling in quick, shallow beats.
“Are you all right, miss?” Katie was always on alert. Sophia depended on her for the simplest things, and Katie was sharp enough to anticipate her needs. “Shall I get the smelling salts?” she asked, already reaching for them on the side table.
Sophia waved away the proffered help with an irritable hand. “I’m fine, Katie. Don’t fuss.” But her lady’s maid still hovered. Sophia concentrated, sucking in a satisfying lungful of air. “See?” She added a thin smile. “I can manage.”
She was rewarded with the girl’s reluctant withdrawal to a nearby chair. A few more steady breaths and Katie’s worry would subside. Sophia appreciated her vigilance, but there were times when she wished it weren’t necessary.
She lay back against the arm of the chaise lounge and let her gaze fall across the room to the view outside. The sun blazed upon the snow. It was perfect weather for a walk. She imagined how the frozen path would crunch underfoot and the air would erupt with shrieks of laughter from an inevitable snowball fight.
That was denied her now. No more romping. Not in snow or autumn leaves. Not in fields of spring flowers or among the buzzing of summer insects. It had been that way for a long time. Even a slow stroll could bring on a bout of coughing and wheezing. And then Father would lay down the law, forbidding her to even sit outside among the shrubbery, lest she should catch a chill.
Mama would have found a compromise that made everyone happy.
But Mama was no more.
Sophia turned her head back to the tray of correspondence on her lap. She did not want to dwell on loss. The anxious thoughts would infiltrate her weakened body and make Katie leap from her chair again. At least her mind was still capable. Poetry and letters—theywould fill her day. And soon, one of her siblings would look in on her. She really should not complain. There was much to be thankful for.
She spread her letters out upon the tray, her eyes searching for the writing of an unfamiliar hand. Letters from friends could wait. What she wanted most was to hear from a publisher. Papa had arranged for a book of her poems to be printed as a gift for her last birthday. And, to her delight, all the copies had been sold. But that had been Papa’s doing, and at his expense. She wanted to succeed on her own merit. She ached for the recognition of the establishment, for her writing to win the approval of her literary peers.
As if in answer to her much-repeated prayer, she spotted the very thing—her name and address printed in a neat, precise hand she had not seen before. Sophia sucked in her breath, causing Katie’s head to jerk up from her sewing. Sophia ignored her, snatching up the letter with eager hands. It had no formal stamp, so it was impossible to tell the name of the publisher at aglance. She pried the wax seal from the folded page and looked for the signature at the bottom.
Tobias Mannerly. She did not know a Tobias Mannerly. Perhaps he was a clerk writing on behalf of another. Well, he would say as much in his introductions. Her eyes flicked to the top of the page and she searched the opening paragraph for a name. But there was none. She caught the occasional word.Passionate. Incomparable.
These were not the formal words of a publisher. Indeed, these were not words that had ever been directed at her in any capacity. There must be some mistake.
She forced her racing thoughts to slow and dragged her focus back to begin the letter anew.
“My dear Miss Grant,” it began. Well, that was predictable enough. And then, with a few more strokes of the quill, it was no longer so. Sophie’s eyes grew wide as they took in the strange words.
“It is impossible to stay my hand from this page. You must be told at once. Your poems are the work of a master wordsmith. They declare themselves—and you through them—with such passionate elegance that I am loath to praise them, lest I do them an injustice with my own feeble eloquence. How other poets must hide in shame for claiming the same stage as you—you with your incomparable skill! Oh, goddess of poetry, I am your willing acolyte!”
Sophia pressed the letter firmly back on her lap. Goodness! So much intimate prose from a stranger! What sort of man wrote such lush admiration to a woman he had not met? Surely the gentleman must know how unseemly his attention would appear?
Her brows drew together suspiciously. Was it a joke? She thought of Henry’s friends at Cambridge who loved a bit of mischief. No, it couldn’t be. Her brother might tease her good-naturedly when he came home for the holidays, but he would not let his friends make a mockery of her. Besides, her family knew what her writing meant to her. They would never let it be the subject of banter, let alone a prank.
She had a good mind to crumple up the page and throw it on the fire. Mr. Mannerly could not expect a different fate for his audacious sentiments. It was just as well Papa was not home. What would he say to such a letter?Hmph. No doubt he would think she had somehow encouraged it. There were bound to be strong words—from his side, at least. He would never tolerate her having an admirer. It was bad enough that she corresponded with academics. But at least he knew them to be old, bespectacled, and—most importantly—married. This letter—she blushed at the very thought of it—embodied a youthful vigor he would never approve of.
Sophia’s private rant pulled up short. She glanced down at the offending sheet with new eyes. Papa would not like her to have it. And Papa ruled her life. She was not like Adriana, who spoke to him with unflinching boldness. Sophia hated confrontation. Illness and sorrow had taken the fight out of her completely. But she had been something of a fireball in her childhood years. Now she missed the way her high spirits had made her feel alive.
A tiny thrill ran through her.
Perhaps, after all, she should keep the letter, though its contents may be so much nonsense. Just having such a taboo possession would be a…a secret rebellion. Knowing she owned something that would infuriate her father—without the consequences of his anger—was oddly exhilarating.
In fact, she decided—with a bravado that could only come from her father’s absence from the house—she would read the entire letter. It would be amusing. And, now that she had made up her mind that Mr. Tobias Mannerly could not be taken seriously, she might even enjoy the excessive flattery. It was not every day a woman was called agoddess.
A furtive glance toward the corner of the room told her Katie’s attention was on her sewing. Good. She was a loyal companion, but the master of the house might frighten the truth from her. Better if she knew nothing to tell.
The page felt strangely warm to the touch when Sophia picked it up once more, as if the heat of its author’s fervor had been embossed upon the lines written there. Her cheeks flushed. She hesitated, her fingertips reaching involuntarily to touch her skin. It must be glowing. As long as Katie assumed it was the effect of the fire in the hearth, she was safe.
A delicious wave of subterfuge washed over her. She was getting away with something. It was only a small intrigue, but it was her very own, and she hugged it to herself.
Once more, she beheld the words that pulsed like a fever upon the page. This time, she drank them in—heady with the ardor of their author. And when she again reached the phrase “willing acolyte,” she pressed on, ready to hear the rest.
“If you will but let me study at your feet, I would have you teach me the mystery of your muse. I have no gift for words myself, but words themselves are all that consume the hours in my day. What a privilege it would be to speak with one who has captured the wildness of thought and harnessed it without taming it, turning it to your will without breaking its raw spirit! You are, I am certain to my very core, a being with an essence most glorious. Nolanguage—not even yours—can possibly capture all that is you.
