“Not yet, Papa.”
“I could join you after I have taken my exercise, if you are willing. I will be gone but an hour.”
Sophia wanted to say she was hungry now, that she was about to send Katie for her breakfast tray. But she did not. He must suffer no disappointment. Not now. She had much to ask of him. They must begin from a place of agreement.
“I will gladly wait for you. Perhaps we may dine at the table. You will have built up an appetite. And a tray can be so clumsy.”
“A fine idea!” He turned to Katie. “See that the table is set. And ask Cook to bring out the blackberry preserves.” He smiled at Sophia. He knew it was her favorite.
“Thank you, Papa. You are very thoughtful,” she said, and she meant it.
“Anything to make you happy,” he answered.
Anything?Sophia bit back the bitter reply. It was easy enough to offer a treat while refusing her the freedom to marry. Like a good dog.Stay. Good girl! Have some blackberry reserves.
Her father left the room. And Sophia waited for his return, in thoughtful captivity.
*
An hour later,they were seated together at the small table in the drawing room. Papa was in a very good mood, even humming a little as he spread butter on his hot crumpet.
Sophia had set aside her grievances for now. That was a battle for another day, if she ever found the courage. Today’s skirmish was merely in aid of her poetry. At least, that would be the story she told.
“Papa,” she began.
“Hmm?” Her father’s voice slipped naturally from a hum to a question.
“I have received a very encouraging letter. Can you guess who sent it?”
Her father paused in the midst of the bite he was about to take. “Is it a publisher?”
“No, not a publisher. Someone more powerful than that.”
“Who is more powerful to the artist than their publisher?” her father wanted to know.
“An influential reader,” she replied.
“I am intrigued. Is it one of your comrades in poetry? Byron, perhaps? Wordsworth?”
“Not a poet. You may have one more guess.”
“I’m afraid you will have to enlighten me. I cannot think who it might be.”
“It is Lord Howell!” Her body trilled with glee as she said the words, for the viscount did indeed admire her work, and the knowledge mattered a great deal to her.
“Well, now, that is a thing, indeed!” Her father sat back, his hands paused in mid-action. “To have gained his lordship’s attention is no small achievement. What does his letter say?”
“I shall read it to you.” She reached into her dress pocket and drew out the page, unfolding it with reverence.
“‘To the poet, Miss Sophia Grant.’” Sophia grinned up at her father. “It is official. Our most prominent member of society has declared me a poet.”
“And so he should. I am gratified to discover that he is the man of good taste I had always thought him to be.”
They shared a moment of happy connection. Then Sophia read on.
“‘I am pleased to say that I acquired your volume of poems for my library at Munro House. I fully intend to recommend it to my circle of close friends. They will, no doubt, do the same. In fact, I imagine a reprint will become necessary to accommodate the growing interest.’”
“I shall write to the printers after breakfast,” Mr. Grant promised. “How many copies shall I order?”
