The Arrangement (27 page)

They were not as unequal as she had thought.

And now they were on their way
home
. She savored the word. She had lived in numerous rooms and houses during her first fifteen years, some of them grand, most of them shabby. And then there had been Aunt Mary’s house in London and then Barton Hall. But there had never been rooms or a house that she had called
home
.

Home had always been a place to dream of.

But
would
Middlebury Park be home? Or would it be just another house in which she lived for a while before moving on? But she would not think of that—moving on, that was. He had been right on their wedding day. They were married
now
. Middlebury Park was to be her home
now
. She wished—oh, she
wished
she had not told him her dream at the assembly, for it had been based entirely upon her belief that she would never marry, that no one would even
want
to marry her. And it had always been one of those impossible dreams anyway, apparently harmless for that very reason.

They would be arriving anytime now. She had heard Mr. Handry say the last time they stopped for a change of horses that that would probably be the final time.

She was terrified.

So what was she going to do about that? Hide in a corner somewhere where it was safe?

Or pretend that she was not afraid at all?

She was about to discover who she was, she realized, and what she was made of.

She had a sudden mental image of the next picture in her sketch pad—a huge mouse, almost filling the page, blank terror in its eyes as though a giant cat were bearing down upon it, a silly, sick grin on its face. And a series of straight lines leading from it to converge on the bottom corner, where the exact same mouse, hugely reduced in size, cowered in cowardly safety.

She smiled and felt her body shake against Vincent’s as she quelled the bubble of laughter that threatened to erupt in sound.

“Mmm,” he said. “Was I snoring?”

“No.”

“
Something
was funny.”

“Oh,” she said. “Not really.”

“Did you sleep?” he asked her. “I believe I did.”

“I was too busy feeling comfortable,” she said. “There is one advantage to being small. I can snuggle up to you on your lap.”

This was one thing she had discovered about herself. She could relax with him and talk with him. She was not quite paralyzed in his presence as she had been a week ago.

“You may do so anytime you choose,” he said. “Well, within reason, I suppose. My steward might be a trifle disconcerted if you were to snuggle up when I was in consultation with him in his office. But touch is important to me, Sophie, perhaps more important than it is to most men. Never be afraid to touch me.”

She had not thought of his need in quite that way. For a moment she thought she might well weep. But she was distracted when she realized the carriage was slowing and then turning.

“Oh.” She sat up and her stomach lurched.

“We must be there,” he said. “Describe it to me, Sophie.”

“Tall stone gateposts,” she said, her eyes widening, “with wrought iron gates. They are open so we do not have to stop. A stone wall stretching to either side, though it is half hidden beneath moss and ivy. A shaded driveway with woods on either side. I see oaks and chestnuts and other trees whose names I do not know. I am hopeless on the names of plants.”

“Which does not matter,” he said, “since plants do not name themselves. Or so you informed me once upon a time.”

The grounds must be huge. There was no sign yet of the house or of any cultivated park. They seemed to be in the depths of the countryside.

“I can see water,” she said then, clambering off his lap and sitting beside him, the better to see through both windows. “There must be a lake, is there? Oh, yes, there it is. A big one. There is even an island in the middle of it with a little temple or something on it. How picturesque! And a boathouse. And reeds. And trees.”

“I have been out in one of the boats,” he told her. “I have to have someone with me, of course, or I am inclined to row into banks and marshes and islands and other assorted obstacles that insist upon getting in my way.”

“You need to learn to look where you are going,” she said. “Better yet, take me with you and
I
will look where you are going. I shall scream when you are about to collide with something. Oh. Oh, Vincent.”

Wonder and terror clutched at her in equal measure.

The house had come into view. House—ha! It was a mansion. It was a
palace
. It was … It was Middlebury Park. It was her new home. She was mistress of it.

“Oh, Vincent.”

“Struck dumb by my charms, are you?” he asked her. “Or are you seeing something else that has tied your tongue in knots?”

“The latter,” she said. “I can see the house. The driveway straightens here on a direct axis with the front doors, and there are lawns on either side with some small topiary trees on either side. And up ahead I can see parterres with more little trees and flowers and statuary. And the house. Oh,
how
can I describe it?”

“It has a high, imposing central block,” he said, “with twelve steps leading up to massive double doors. There are long wings to either side and round towers at the four corners. The stable block is off to the left. We will turn to the right very soon and drive between the lawn and the parterres and so approach the house from the east side. Behind the house the park rises into hills, and there are many more trees covering them and descending almost to the kitchen gardens. It is a bit of a wilderness back there. Each side of the park is two miles long—eight miles all told. It would take two and a half hours to walk around the outside of the wall at a fair pace. I have done it in three and a half. The farms are beyond the walls.”

“You peeped when no one was looking,” she said.

“My secret is out.” He took her hand in his. “Are you impressed with your husband’s great consequence, Sophie?”

Impressed?
That did not nearly describe how she felt, but no other word in her vocabulary did either.

“Oh, Vincent,” was all she could say. The carriage had indeed turned right and then left and left again until it drew to a halt at the foot of a flight of marble steps. She would take his word for it that there were twelve.

“Do I take that to be yes?” he asked her.

“I am impressed at
my
consequence,” she told him, desperately trying to convert terror to humor. “I am mistress of all this, am I not?”

The great front doors, she could see now that they were close, had opened, and a lady had appeared in the doorway. She moved to the top of the steps as Sophia watched.

Vincent’s mother?

Mr. Handry had jumped down from his perch and was opening the carriage door and lowering the steps.

Sophia raised her chin—what else was there to do?

V
incent stepped down from the carriage and was immediately engulfed in his mother’s embrace. She had seen the carriage approaching, then. She must have been watching for it. She had probably had a dozen or more letters from Barton Coombs and had been hovering near a window for days.

He felt a familiar rush of guilt and love.

“Vincent,” she cried. “Oh, at last you are safely home. I have worried myself to a shadow.” She clung to him wordlessly for a while and then loosened her hold and held him by the shoulders. “But what have you done? Tell me it is not true. Please tell me you did not do anything so foolish. I have been sleepless with worry since I heard. We all have.”

“Mama.”

He turned slightly and must have given her a view of the carriage behind him. Her hands fell away from his shoulders and she went silent. He raised a hand to help Sophia alight.

“Mama,” he said, “may I present Sophia? My wife? My mother, Sophie.”

Her hand came to rest on his. She had pulled her gloves on, he could feel.

“Oh, Vincent,” his mother said faintly as Sophia came down the steps. “You
have
married her, then.”

“Mrs. Hunt.” He could feel Sophia dip into a curtsy.

“I would not believe it,” his mother was saying, “even when Elsie Parsons herself wrote to me. I expected that you would come to your senses before it was too late.”

“Mama,” he said sharply.

“Here come your grandmother and Amy,” she said. “Whatever will they think?”

Amy was the first to arrive.

“Vincent,” she cried, pulling him into a tight hug. “You wretched boy. Mama has been beside herself ever since you disappeared in the middle of the night like a naughty schoolboy, and she has been beside herself all over again since hearing about your newest escapade. Whatever were you
thinking
?”

Sophia always had been virtually invisible, according to her. The quiet mouse in its quiet corner.

“Vincent. Dearest boy.” It was his grandmother’s voice, warm with affection, and Amy relinquished her hold on him so that their grandmother could hug him in her turn.

“Grandmama,” he said, “and Amy. Allow me to present my wife, Sophia. My grandmother, Mrs. Pearl, Sophie, and my eldest sister, Amy Pendleton.”

“Oh, you
have
married, then,” Amy cried. “I would not believe it even though Anthony said you would if you had compromised her to the extent of taking her to London without a chaperon.”

He might have known that one at least of his sisters would be here, summoned, no doubt, to help deal with this new family crisis involving him. And Amy was the closest geographically. The other two were probably on their way.

The first one to recover her manners was his grandmother.

“Sophia, my dear,” she said, “you are looking pale enough to fall over. You are looking as I always feel when I have been compelled to take a long carriage journey. I daresay you need a nice hot cup of tea and something to eat, and we will find both for you up in the drawing room. That is a pretty little bonnet you are wearing. I suppose it is the very height of fashion, since you have been in London.”

“Mrs. Pearl,” Sophia said, her voice soft and a little trembly. “Yes, we went there to marry, and Vincent insisted that I have new clothes since … Well. Yes, a cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Sophia,” Amy said in stiff greeting. “You are a niece of Lady March’s, we understand?”

“Yes,” Sophia said. “My father was her brother.”

“Well, what is done is done,” Vincent’s mother said briskly, “and we must all make the best of it. Sophia, do go inside with my mother. Amy and I will help Vincent in.”

One on each arm, no doubt, walking rather slowly, propelling him along, keeping him safe from any obstacle that might hurl itself into his path. He already felt the old slight irritation. Though that was unfair. They meant so well. They loved him.

“You must not trouble yourself, Mama,” he said. “Martin? My cane, if you please. Sophie?” He held out his arm, and he felt her hand slip through it. “I’ll take you up to the drawing room while our bags are being carried to our rooms. A cup of tea would indeed be just the thing, Grandmama. It has been a long journey. I am sorry I caused you such anxiety, Mama, though I did have Martin write to you a time or two. We were in the Lake District. I’ll tell you about my travels when we are sitting down, and about our wedding, though I daresay Sophia will do a better job of telling you about that. Have you arrived just recently, Amy? Are Anthony and the children with you?”

“They are,” she said. “We arrived late yesterday. We came as soon as we heard. Though I was convinced you would not actually get married in such haste. Indeed, I was sure you would not, especially when you ran from the mere prospect of matrimony such a short while ago.”

“That was Miss Dean, Amy,” he said, “and this is Sophia. Miss Dean was not my choice of bride, while Sophia was. And is.”

He was walking as he spoke. When Martin had set his cane in his hand, he had also by a slight touch turned him in the right direction. He felt the rise of the bottom step with his cane and counted as he climbed while talking at the same time.

“I believe the sun must be shining,” he said. “Is it?”

“It is,” Sophia said.

“I can feel its heat on my back,” he said. “I am glad about that. You will be seeing Middlebury Park at its finest, Sophie, though there is far more to see, of course, than just the parterres and the front façade of the house and the woods and the lake.”

He stopped when they were inside the hall. He knew it was impressive. The floor was tiled with black and white squares and there was a great deal of white marble with classical busts set in alcoves. The ceiling was painted with scenes from mythology, and the frieze was gilded. There was a large marble fireplace on either side so that when one entered the house on a chilly day, one was met with at least the illusion of warmth and the cozy crackle of logs and the smell of the wood.

“Well?” he said.

“Oh,” she said, almost in a whisper. “It is
magnificent
.”

Yes. It was also intended to inspire awe in lowly visitors. Not necessarily, though, in its own mistress.