Certainly Jack himself seemed in no hurry to speak with her again. Perhaps he never would. He had been present at the balls they had attended over the past three nights. She had seen him in the distance, but he had not approached her. Indeed, once, when they had passed close while she had been strolling the floor on one of her would-be suitors’ arms, and their gazes had met, he had merely inclined his head in a distant fashion. She had replied in kind, but inside the ache had intensified.
Sophie closed her eyes and searched for peace in the repetitive rocking of the coach. She had done the right thing-she kept telling herself so. Her tears, perforce, had been shed discreetly, far from Lucilla’s sharp eyes. She had stifled her grief, refusing to dwell on it; suppressed, it had swelled until it pervaded her, beating leaden in her veins, a cold misery enshrouding her soul. A misery she was determined none would ever see.
Which meant she had to face the possibility that Jack might take up the invitation Lucilla had extended to join them at Little Bickmanstead. The guest list numbered some twenty-seven souls, invited to enjoy a few days of rural peace in the rambling old house close by Epping Forest. But Jack wouldn’t come, not now. Sophie sighed, feeling not relief, but an inexpressible sadness at the thought.
The well-sprung travelling carriage rolled over a rut, throwing Clarissa against her shoulder. They disentangled themselves and sat up, both checking on Lucilla, seated opposite, her dresser, Mimms, by her side. Her aunt, Sophie noted, was looking distinctly seedy. A light flush tinted Lucilla’s alabaster cheeks and her eyes were overbright.
Touching a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose, Lucilla sniffed delicately. “Incidentally, Clarissa, I had meant to mention it before now-but you really don’t want to encourage that guardsman, Captain Gurnard.” Lucilla wrinkled her nose. “I’m not at all sure he’s quite the thing, despite all appearances to the contrary.”
“Fear not, Mama.” Clarissa smiled gaily. “I’ve no intention of succumbing to the captain’s wiles. Indeed, I agree with you, there’s definitely something ‘not quite’ about him.”
Lucilla shot her daughter a narrow-eyed glance, then, apparently reassured, she blew her nose and settled back against the cushions.
Clarissa continued to smile sunnily. Her plans were proceeding, albeit not as swiftly as she would have liked. Ned was proving remarkably resistant to the idea of imitating her other swains; he showed no signs of wanting to prostrate himself at her feet. However, as she found such behaviour a mite inconvenient, Clarissa was perfectly ready to settle for a declaration of undying love and future happiness. Her current problem lay in how to obtain it.
Hopefully, a few days in quieter, more familiar surroundings, even without the helpful presence of the captain to spur Ned on, would advance her cause.
The carriage checked and turned. Sophie looked out and saw two imposing gateposts just ahead. Then the scrunch of gravel announced they had entered the drive. The house lay ahead, screened by ancient beeches. When they emerged in the forecourt, Sophie saw a long, two-storey building in a hotchpotch of styles sprawling before them. One thing was instantly apparent: housing a party of forty would not stretch the accommodations of Little Bickmanstead. Indeed, losing a party of forty in the rambling old mansion looked a very likely possibility.
Drops of rain began spotting the grey stone slabs of the porch as they hurried inside. A fleeting glance over her shoulder revealed a bank of black clouds racing in from the east. The other members of the family had elected to ride from town, Horatio keeping a watchful eye on his brood. Minton and the other higher servants had followed close behind, the luggage with them. The forecourt became a scene of frenzied activity as they all hurried to dismount and stable the horses and unpack the baggage before the storm hit.
The family gathered in the hall, looking about with interest. The rectangular hall was dark, wood panelling and old tapestries combining to bolster the gloom. An ancient butler had admitted them; an even more ancient housekeeper came forward, a lamp in her hand.
As the woman bobbed a curtsy before her, Lucilla put out a hand to the table in the centre of the room. “Oh, dear.”
One glance at her deathly pale face was enough to send them all into a panic.
“My dear?” Horatio hurried to her side.
“Mama?” came from a number of throats.
“Mummy, you look sick,” came from Hermione, gazing upwards as she held her mother’s hand.
Lucilla closed her eyes. “I’m dreadfully afraid,” she began, her words very faint.
“Don’t say anything,” Horatio advised. “Here, lean on me-we’ll have you to bed in a trice.”
The old housekeeper, eyes wide, beckoned them up the stairs. “I’ve readied all the rooms as instructed.”
Minton was already sorting through the bags. Sending Clarissa ahead with Mimms and the housekeeper, Sophie came to her aunt’s other side. Together, she and Horatio supported a rapidly wilting Lucilla up the stairs and along a dim and drafty corridor to a large chamber. Mimms was in charge there; the bed was turned down, the housekeeper dispatched for a warming pan. A fire was cracking into life in the grate.
They quickly helped Lucilla to bed, laying her back on the soft pillows and tucking the covers about her. Once installed, she regained a little colour. She opened her eyes and regarded them ruefully. And sniffed. “This is terrible. I’ve organized it all-there are twenty-seven people on their way here. They’ll all arrive before dinner. And if the rain persists, they’ll need to be entertained for the next two days.”
“Don’t worry about anything,” Horatio said, patting her hand. But even he was frowning as the ordeal before them became clear.
“But you haven’t a hostess.” Lucilla put her handkerchief to her nose, cutting off what sounded like a tearful wail. She blinked rapidly.
Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I’m sure I can manage, with Uncle Horatio and Great Aunt Evangeline behind me. It’s not as if you were not in the house-I can check any details with you. And it’s not as if there were no chaperons. You told me yourself you’ve invited a number of matrons.”
Lucilla’s woeful expression lightened. Her frown turned pensive. “I suppose.” For a moment, all was silent. Then, “Yes,” she finally announced, and nodded. “It just might work. But,” she said, raising rueful eyes to Sophie’s face, “I’m awfully afraid, my dear, that it will be no simple matter.”
Relieved to have averted immediate catastrophe, for if Lucilla broke down, that would certainly follow, Sophie smiled with totally false confidence. “You’ll see, we’ll contrive.”
Those words seemed to have become a catchphrase of her Season, Sophie mused as, an hour later, she sat in the front parlour, off the entrance hall, the guest list in her hand.
After assuring themselves that Lucilla was settled and resigned to her bed, she and Clarissa and Horatio had gone to pay their respects to Aunt Evangeline. It had been years since Sophie had met her ageing relative; the years had not been kind to Aunt Evangeline. She was still ambulatory, but her wits were slowly deserting her. Still, she recognized Horatio, even though she was apparently ineradicably convinced that Clarissa was Lucilla and Sophie her dead mother, Maria. They had given up trying to correct the misapprehension, concentrating instead on explaining their current predicament. Whether or not they had succeeded was moot, but at least Aunt Evangeline had given them a free hand to order things as they wished.
Nevertheless, the prospect of having to keep a weather eye out for an old dear who, so the housekeeper had gently informed them, was full of curiosity and prone to wandering the corridors at all hours draped in shawls that dragged their fringes on the floor, was hardly comforting.
A sound came from outside. Sophie lifted her head, listening intently. The wind was rising, whistling about the eaves. Rain fell steadily, driving in gusts against the windows, masking other sounds. Then came the unmistakable jingle of harness. Sophie rose. The first of her aunt’s guests had arrived. Girding her loins, she tugged the bell-pull and went out into the hall.
From the very first, it was bedlam. The Billinghams-Mrs. Billingham and both of her daughters-were the first to arrive. By the time they had descended from their carriage and negotiated the steps, their carriage dresses were soaked to the knees.
“Oh, how dreadful! Mama, I’m
Mrs. Billingham, if anything even damper than her daughters, was not disposed to give comfort. “Indeed, Lucy, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. We’re all wet-and now here’s a to-do with Mrs. Webb ill. I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t turn round and return to town.”
“Oh no, Mama-you couldn’t be so cruel!” The plaintive wail emanated from the elder Miss Billingham.
“Indeed, Mrs. Billingham, there’s really no need.” Smoothly, Sophie cut in, clinging to her usual calm.
