Chapter 5
Fighting back her exhaustion and ignoring her rumbling stomach, Sofia lifted the hem of her skirts and scurried through the upper halls, down the stairs, and out the door into the front garden, determined to reach Zach before he vanished again. True to her word, Sofia had tried to find and speak with Zachariah after returning from town. Twice, a servant had assured her that he could be found in a certain location, and twice, she had arrived to find that location vacant.
The sun slinked lazily towards the horizon as Sofia travelled the path to the stables. A young gardener paused in his pruning to give a friendly nod, and in the distance, she could hear the squabbling of geese.
When she had arrived yesterday, the grandness of the estate and the obvious care that went into its maintenance had overshadowed the quaintness. Now, she noticed the vibrant colours of the mismatched plants that grew snuggled alongside one another, and saw all the spaces left to grow in their natural state, beautiful and untamed. It occurred to Sofia then how much the estate seemed to mimic the family who resided there.
Sofia slowed her steps as she approached the stables, keeping her eyes trained on the young man whose expression grew increasingly wary as she walked closer. As if she were a cold gust of wind, he stiffened, then tucked his knees into his chest. He had the build of a boy who had grown tall far too quickly for his muscles to keep pace. A vegetable sprout, all stalk with very few leaves.
He rose to his feet, but instead of greeting her, he turned his back and planted his elbows on the fence railing. His long fingers tunnelled into his guinea-gold hair. Sofia stopped, watching the unnaturally rapid rise and fall of his shoulders.
Sofia, who had felt awkward and out of step since arriving in England, experienced a sudden jolt of empathy for this boy. She longed to provide him with a fraction of the calm she wished she could find for herself. “I hear the English like to talk about the weather when they have nothing more pertinent to say,” she began. “Although, quite frankly, from what I have seen of your skies, it must be a brief conversation because the answer is always ‘grey.’ Murky grey. Blotchy grey. Hazy grey. Mottled grey. Like a string quartet that only knows one song, really, and a tedious one at that. That may be precisely what makes it an easy way to begin a conversation, I suppose. It requires very little consideration. Do you think it will rain? England seems to exist under constant threat of storms.”
Sometime amidst her rambling, Zachariah had turned, but now he was staring just over her shoulder in the direction of the manor. Whether plotting his exit or offering some partial nod towards civility, she couldn’t tell. Sofia followed his lead, feigning interest in the goat stables and attempting to appear indifferent to his part of the conversation… or lack thereof. She continued on to fill his silence.
“And from there, it’s an easy transition into the state of the roads. Which, after travelling from the Peninsula, I’m rather an expert at. Muddy and lumpy most days, in case you are curious. And on the rare occasion where the weather remains dry and grey instead of wet and grey, they become dusty and lumpy.” She shrugged. “If forced to choose between the two, I think my preference leans more towards dusty and lumpy.”
“Roads aren’t lumpy. Old feather beds are,” Zachariah mumbled.
Maintaining an impassive expression, Sofia reconsidered her word choice. “Gnarled, then? Crumbly? Curdled?” Sofia searched her vocabulary for more slightly incorrect words. “Scratchy?”
Zachariah smirked at the grass beneath his boots. “Those would be descriptions of tree bark, hard cheese, old milk, and unshaven beards… respectively.”
She winced. “It would be a great favour to me if you would help me with my English while I teach you a bit of maths and Italian. Perhaps then I wouldn’t find myself in a near-constant state of embarrassment.” Sofi meandered towards the fence and leaned against a wooden post. She watched a goat kid determinedly follow his mother, who seemed disinclined towards maternal tasks at the moment. The doe hopped this way and that as he zigzagged after her. Eventually, she cut the kid an annoyed glare and allowed him to nurse.
“What’s that one’s name? The pushy little lad.”
“Pumpkin Pulp.”
Sofia gave an undignified snort of amusement. “Chickens named after Shakespeare’s characters and goats named after food rubbish.”
“My mama,” Zach said by way of explanation.
“I met her yesterday.” She made the statement without inflection, but the young man, apparently accustomed to having to defend his mother’s eccentricities, bristled. His mouth opened, but after a moment of obvious indignation, his jaw clamped shut and he turned away. Sofia watched the way his fingertips gripped the railing as though struggling with his words. He brought to mind a volcano with no opening, the lava bubbling and burning him from inside with no means of escape.
“I liked her very much,” Sofia murmured.
His anger appeared to be aimed at himself as much as Sofia, and despite her reassurance, it took substantially longer to recede than it had to ignite. Counting her breaths as the seconds ticked by, her earlier conversation with the duchess rose up in her mind. Not the words so much as the emotion behind them. Violet’s love for Zachariah was so profound that it had rendered Sofia’s own objectives and apprehensions silent.
The duchess had looked at Sofia and seen a person who could make a difference in her son’s life. Sofia wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that, no matter the brevity of her stay, she could make these days count for something.
“I’m told you like to draw,” Sofia said conversationally. “If you were to draw a portrait of me, where would you begin?” She paused, giving him an opening to join the conversation. When he didn’t, she continued. “My head I suppose. When I attempt a stick figure, that”s where I start, but I always misjudge the proportions. No doubt, as an artist, you can see the end result before you even take up your pencil. You imagine the precise point on the parchment to begin, anticipate the space you will need for every line and curve that follows, envision the pressure required to make that first mark, feel the texture of the pencil in your hand, notice the brightness of the sun reflecting off the surface of your parchment… if such a thing as an English sun existed, of course.”
She chanced a quick peek at Zachariah through lowered lashes and watched his body relax, a far off look in his eyes taking the place of his unwieldy anger as he grew subdued by talk of the artistic process.
Sofia let the silence carry on undisturbed.
“I would start with your eyes,” Zach said quietly. His gaze flicked up, then away again like the leap of a grasshopper.
Sofia offered a tentative smile. “I always just draw circles with a little dot in the centre for the eyes.”
For a time, he gave no reaction at all. Then, as if he’d discerned her intention to set him at ease only after holding and examining her sentence in his mind for long minutes, Zach returned her smile.
Sofia’s stomach took that moment to remind her it was empty, and she covered it with a grimace. “I guess I have somewhere else I need to be. But it was very nice meeting you, Zachariah, and I look forward to my English lessons. I will try very hard to be an exemplary pupil. Buon pomeriggio, professore!”
Since the kitchens appeared to be in a near-constant state of raucous activity, Sofia hoped that she would be able to slip in and out unnoticed. That hope was immediately extinguished as some forty pairs of eyes turned in her direction the moment she stepped through the door. Sofia had assumed that in a house as large as Northam Hall, the servants would take their meals in shifts. Instead, what must have been the majority of the staff was present and congregated around two long rectangular tables. Sofia shifted in place, her palms beginning to sweat.
“Can someone pass me the potatoes, please? I’m close to gnawing my own arm off over here.” The gruff request seemed to shake the masses free of their conspicuous gawking, and the room fell back into conversation.
Sofia let out a breath, her gaze unconsciously settling upon her rescuer. Mr Keene, of course. He sat quietly, watching her. Waiting for her eyes to connect with his. He didn’t look like the outlandish troublemaker who had goaded her into broomstick fencing and smuggled expensive fruit trees into her room. He looked steady. Safe and quiet and dependable. Wholesome and comfortable, with his rumpled hair and soft grey eyes. Before she could stop herself, the corners of her mouth tipped up. His entire face bloomed with bright, unconcealed joy. Apparently, England did have a sun. His name was Christopher Keene. Sofia was suddenly desperate for a cloud to hide behind, but for once, the bloody English sky held only blue.
The meal was boisterous and overwhelming, with food disappearing at an alarming rate. Savouring the flavour of a buttery roasted potato, Sofia closed her eyes, her busy mind lulled by the sea of diverse accents swirling around her at the wide oak tables. Many were similar, likely native to southern England, but she also heard Irish accents and one she recognised as Yorkshire. Others were distinct and unique, but unidentifiable given her limited knowledge of the regional dialects.
It was like an intricate sprawling ecosystem within a larger more obvious biome. The exterior appearance of the aristocratic manor, with its elegant symmetry and intimidating Corinthian columns, was all most visitors to Northam Hall would notice. They would see a fitting home for a peer of the realm. But just down the stairs, tucked away from view, an entirely separate world existed, packed with people no less fascinating, no less caught up in their own lives, and with no fewer dreams and complex dynamics within their makeshift family.
Sofia was content to listen to the bits of conversation occurring nearby. While some related to the speakers’ daily tasks, most had nothing at all to do with the estate or the family who employed them. That there was no talk of the duke and duchess, and no gossip about the private conversations their servants had overheard, told Sofia much about the staff’s loyalty to their employers.
Given the cacophony of noise, one would think the servants too busy laughing and telling stories to chew and swallow, but somehow they managed. They ate and were quick to vacate the room once their plates were cleared. She couldn’t put off speaking with Keene, but Sofia’s chest tightened uncomfortably every time she pictured speaking with the cold viciousness that would be required to deter this man’s friendship. He would see anything less as an invitation to continue. He cannot continue.
In the best possible scenario she could conjure in her mind, Sofia would depart Northam Hall in three-months’ time with thirty pounds in her pocket and a brother who had begrudgingly conceded to her wisdom. But she was neither optimistic nor naive enough to believe in the best-case scenario. More likely, Oliver would grow tired of her avoidance and bully her into playing her part. Or he would find a different way to obtain the papers, cutting her out entirely. In this more likely scenario, lives would be changed. The Ansons’s. Hers. Oliver’s, though he did not seem to know that yet. Like a tangle of webs, her deceit would stretch in every direction.
A hard knot formed in her stomach at the thought of dowsing the earnest expression from Christopher’s face, and so she just stood there, paralysed by indecision. He experienced no such uncertainty—of course he didn’t—and a moment later, he was beside her, casually propped against the wall.
“You smell like pears. Every beautiful woman should smell like pears.” His silky baritone arrested her thoughts.
She took a step away, increasing the buffer of safe space between them. “Nonsense. I’ve been in the woods all day. I smell like sweat and the stagnant creek I used to rinse myself.” Despite knowing that her description was incontrovertibly true, she took one subtle sniff to see if any trace of the delectable fruit still lingered on her skin, then scowled at the foolishness his charming words had incited.
A knowing smile pulled at his mouth, and Sofia suddenly had the urge to jab him with her index finger in his deeply rutted dimple. The way he provoked and teased her, drawing her ever closer to the cusp of irrepressible mirth, made her feel light and buoyant. Made her feel as if she could bend just a little. Being with Christopher made her feel that something more than survival might be possible. He reminded her of the joy that had been missing from her life for far too long. But any more of that joy would make it too hard to walk away.
“I won’t waste time dancing around the issue with small talk, Mr Keene.”
“No. We wouldn’t want anything light-hearted to sneak into our conversations.”
She frowned. “It’s clear that you are determined for us to be on favourable terms, so consider it so.”
“Favourable terms? When one neighbour agrees not to make dinner out of the other neighbour’s cow should it accidentally wander onto their land, that’s ‘favourable terms.’ Hardly a declaration of friendship.” He gestured toward a secluded table in the corner of the scullery. “Would you care for tea? It is the sort of thing one friend might offer another.”
“No thank you, Mr Keene.” The room had cleared out with the exception of Mrs Simmons, the cook, Bennett, and a few footmen who seemed intent on studying the pair during their verbal duel. While the thought of becoming a spectacle to the remaining servants was abhorrent to Sofia, the suggestion of privacy between them felt even worse. It felt like an unacceptable risk.
Sofia sighed, exhaustion suddenly rearing its head, and the playfulness disappeared from Christopher’s expression. His gaze slipped over her, seeming to take in her slumped shoulders and the tired lines of her face. He studied her with the sort of care that might have felt good under different circumstances. As it was, she felt deeply exposed. “What is it you want from me?”
Christopher smiled sweetly, his expression clear of artifice. “Only your friendship.” Sofia couldn’t keep the baffled expression from her face, and Christopher’s tone softened further as he explained to her, “You complain to me when nothing has gone right in your day, and I look for an empty space beside yours at the supper table because I know your company will make everything taste better. When you come down with a cold, you accept my handkerchief without questioning my motive. Perhaps you even come to expect it in your hand before you think to ask for it. And when my cow gets loose and eats your begonias, you feel glad to see it there because it’s the perfect excuse to bring it home to me and share a cup of tea. Friendship, Miss Lioni, that is all.”
Sofia was spellbound, lulled into some soft, half-melted version of herself by his soulful eyes and inconceivable words.
“How about friendship for an hour? Give me one hour each afternoon, Miss Lioni. One hour to earn your friendship for another day. You can always go back to hating me tomorrow.”
She could taste the refusal on her lips, feel it buzzing there waiting to be released, but it would not come. An hour every day to allow him to know her? She couldn’t give him that. Because if he ever knew her—really knew her—he would hate the person he found. Foolish as it was, though, she couldn’t stand the idea of seeing the rapt anticipation lighting his face decay into cold disappointment. And so she nodded, her stupid, hopeful heart leaping in her chest at the prospect of this man’s friendship.
“I have conditions.”
“Of course you do.”
She glared.
He smiled.
“I choose the time. It cannot interfere with the children or my work here.”
Christopher nodded. “Gabriel can button his own shirts. I am at your disposal.”
“You have to return the pear trees to the glasshouse. They need pollinators and there are no bees in my room.”
“I considered the addition of butterflies. Your counterpane is floral, they would be right at home.”
“No.”
“No?”
“And no more little gifts.”
“How negotiable is that condition?”
“It’s not.”
“Good then, a little bit negotiable.”
“Mr Keene!”
“Miss Lioni!” He cocked his head to the side, a lock of hair falling over his brow. It looked soft. “You’re beautiful when you’re annoyed. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“And none of that.”
“None of what?”
“Flirting. No flirting. Friends do not flirt. They do not call one another beautiful.”
“It isn’t flirting, it’s factual. You are beautiful when you’re annoyed, which has the effect of making me want to annoy you more. Also, Gabriel is my friend and I tell him he looks pretty all the time… although he doesn’t seem to care for it either.”
Sofia narrowed her eyes, holding her ground like a seasoned general.
He sighed, but none of his cheerfulness fell away. “Very well. No flirting. But you may have to be flexible due to the subjective nature of this ‘flirting’ you speak of. Furthermore, if I’m to make all these concessions, I would ask for one in return.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
“I would like for you to call me Christopher.”
“No. Assolutamente no.”
“Why not? It’s easy enough to say, rolls right off the tongue.”
“No.”
“And I would like to call you Sofia. It’s such a pretty name and saying so doesn’t count as flirting since I am not complimenting you. Technically, I am complimenting your mother, who I assume named you. ‘Miss Lioni’ is cumbersome, and if I only have sixty minutes of friendship, I don’t want to waste time stumbling over formalities.”
“Uomo fastidioso,” Sofia grumbled.
“I’m going to pretend you just said something nice to me.”
Sofia bit back her response when the duke’s imposing figure filled the doorway.
“Miss Lioni, I presume? It is a pleasure to meet you. My duchess speaks very highly of you.”
Sofia dipped into a curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. Your children are delightful.” She slid back into the corner, suddenly feeling rather small and shabby. Despite his relaxed manner and amiable smile, the duke’s every syllable and movement exuded an air of crisp command. It was difficult to picture this paragon of aristocratic bearing being married to the chicken-cuddling duchess.
“Looking for someone?” Keene asked, shifting his attention to His Grace.
“Violet.”
“She doesn’t generally take her meals with me.” Gabriel lowered his chin and frowned. Most of the other servants, apparently long accustomed to the unorthodox relationship, paid the conversation no mind. Bennett, however, scowled.
“But I may know where she is,” Keene added.
“You may know?” the duke repeated.
Bennett quit the room with a parting look of disgust at Keene, who appeared amused by the old man’s ruffled feathers.
“He would fire me in an instant if you would allow it … gleefully,” Keene said.
“Yes, well, I may let him if you don’t tell me where my wife has gone.”
A footman coughed out a laugh, then buried his amusement behind his hand.
“I feel like the information you want is jostling around in my brain, but it lacks the proper glucose required to break free. There is a treacle tart, you see, but Mrs Simmons smacked my hand when I went to take a slice. Hurt like the devil! That woman is feistier than a wildcat.” Christopher winced dramatically and rubbed at the back of his hand, then glanced at Sofia, who maintained her neutral expression.
“She informed me that there’s only enough to serve the family for the evening meal. But it’s a treacle tart, Gabriel. My favourite.” Christopher’s gaze floated wistfully towards the dessert, then towards Mrs Simmons, who guarded it with a dour expression.
“Oh, give him the damn tart, Mrs Simmons,” Gabriel said.
She huffed like a schoolgirl who had been asked to surrender a favourite toy before she cut a slice and plopped it in front of Christopher with a shake of her head. “You should fire him, Your Grace. Troublesome little pest, he is.” But there was no malice in her voice, and she tucked a napkin into his hand.
Christopher beamed at the prize before him for a long moment before he stood, carrying the plate tightly clutched in both hands. He stopped before Sofia. Christopher looked between the proffered tart and Sofia, a smile tipping at the corners of his mouth.
“No presents,” she hissed under her breath. And with a quick curtsy to the duke, she left the room.