Chapter 9
Out the door and along the winding path of azaleas, plump with pink blossoms, Sofia followed Northam wordlessly. He only broke his stride to avoid colliding with a cluster of chickens accosting him in the hope of obtaining an afternoon snack. One limped slightly behind, slower than the others. Pausing, Northam peered down at the sad, gimpy fellow. “Caesar, I’m glad to see your leg improving, old chap. You gave my duchess quite a scare, and that I will not tolerate.” Halting abruptly in his terse lecture, he righted his posture.
“You know, before Violet there was absolutely no chance at all I would have lectured the poultry.” He sighed and shook his head, lips tipped up in a rueful smile.
The waiting was becoming intolerable. If he was going to sack her, she wished he would get it done. “Your Grace, I understand my behaviour was completely unacceptable. I did not intend to intrude on your private—” The duke held up a hand to stop her, his expression solemn.
“If you are under the impression that I am dragging you out of doors to chastise you, Miss Lioni, you are mistaken. It’s quite clear that you were hoodwinked by my cook, who intended for you to stumble upon a tasty morsel of conversation. Or more likely, she intended for you to catch my valet in a state of dishabille. Mrs Simmons wasn’t blessed with children of her own, so dabbling in the personal lives of others brings her no shortage of delight.”
He was smiling widely now, and the sight was nearly as disconcerting as his frown. “I only wished for a private moment to ensure you have everything you require here to be comfortable. To be happy.” He reached down and picked up Caesar, who glared indignantly for a moment before relaxing into the duke’s careful hold. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy of late, but that’s no excuse for my failure to meet with you earlier. Just as I care about this blasted rooster because he matters to my family, I care about your contentment. You matter to the people I love.” He rubbed a knuckle against Caesar’s cheek, and the rooster leaned into the scratch like an entitled hound.
Her happiness was being compared to that of a chicken’s. She should be offended. And yet, watching his solicitous care of the poultry, she felt an odd sort of gratitude to be the focus of his unorthodox concern.
He seemed not to notice as Sofia all but liquified into a puddle of unwelcome tenderness. Feelings inundated her at every turn these days. Gratitude, affection, fulfilment, amusement… hope. She felt them all, and it was like a full-scale invasion. After years of the interminable rotation of disappointment and fear, she found the ever-increasing diversity of her feelings difficult to navigate.
“I’m not sure what serendipitous gift from the universe caused you to land in our apple orchard, Miss Lioni, but I for one am very glad you are here teaching my children. They look forward to their lessons and seem more content in life than they have ever been. That is, at least in part, thanks to you. Since you have not yet been blessed with children of your own, you will have to trust me when I tell you how truly rare it is for all your children to be happy at the same time.”
Sofia rubbed her knuckles into her sternum, attempting to ease the tightness in her chest. Guilt seeped into her heart as if the muscle was made of cheesecloth. Like his wife and children, this man was considerate and kind. The truth of it burned away at her insides. She wanted to break down before him and confess her treachery, to apologise while sobbing onto his expensive boots. She loathed crying. Tears did nothing to wash away sins or loss. Instead, like the salt of the sea, they eroded you, making you vulnerable to a world that wounded indiscriminately. No, Sofia would not cry. She swallowed past the thickness in her throat and met Northam’s eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Her words were as unsteady as her determination to remain detached had proven to be. She’d become detached all right. Detached from all of Oliver’s devious scheming, and growing more affectionately tethered every day to those she was meant to be blackmailing. The Sofia who had arrived at Northam Hall had melted like sugar beneath the immutable warmth of these people. Suddenly, even the best-case scenario of their plan didn’t feel good enough … and the worst was beyond consideration.
Brow pinched with concern, Northam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He seemed to be torn between comforting her and pretending not to see her distress. Sofia blinked rapidly to combat the tears burning at the backs of her eyes and drew her shoulders back.
Gingerly setting the rooster back on its feet, the duke stepped closer. “It’s a sometimes-inconvenient consequence of having been married for well over half my life that I have a difficult time seeing a distraught woman without attempting to make it right. Bear in mind, Miss Lioni, that I am a duke. There is very little not within my power to make right.”
There was a heart-wrenching half-truth to his words. You can make nearly everything right. Everything but this. She shook her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Northam studied her for another moment before offering his arm. “Very well. I’ll not press you for more. Over the years, I’ve learned the wisdom of that as well.”
They resumed their walk. “I wonder if you might help me with a problem instead. Zachariah, I am certain you have noticed, is… introspective. He has difficulty finding his place among peers, and with strangers he retreats entirely. Though he’s quite taken with you, I think.” He gifted her with a brief, winning smile, and it was easy to see why the sun rose and set upon this man for the residents of Northam Hall. “There is a young boot boy, Phillip, who is nearly Zach’s age. I have seen them exchange a few words from time to time, and I wonder if it might help Zachariah’s confidence if he were to form some relationships with others his age on the estate. Boys I know to be gentle in nature.”
“You wish for your son to befriend the … servants?” Sofia attempted to rein in her incredulity, but abandoned the attempt altogether when his bark of laughter indicated her complete failure to do so.
Sofia blinked. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I freely admit to my ignorance of the English aristocracy, but even within the noble families of the Peninsula, the son of a duke does not keep company with the boy who picks gravel from his horses’ hooves. It simply isn’t done.” Only after she had spoken did Sofia realise that it was, in fact, exactly what the duke had done when he’d befriended Christopher. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks to combat their growing warmth.
He paused his steps, an expression of patient understanding settling upon his features instead of the outrage she expected. Glancing down, he raised an eyebrow at a spindly red hen who pecked aggressively at his left boot. “I do not wish for my son to befriend servants, strictly speaking. I would like for him to have the confidence to judge a man’s character for himself and to learn the skills required to befriend those worthy of a place in his life, regardless of their station.”
The duke looked away and rubbed his fingertips across his brow. “It’s not only a desire for solitude that keeps Zach apart. Fear is an unreliable voice at best, a treacherous one at worst, and I’m afraid it’s all he hears. I cannot make the world accept him as he is, but while he is young and tucked safely under my wing, I’d like to teach him to question that fear. To learn the difference between choosing to be circumspect and simply running away to avoid any possibility of being hurt. With the opportunity to practice and experience success here at the estate, it is my hope that another voice will grow stronger in place of that fear. A voice that tells him that his unique qualities don’t make him less of a man. That he is brilliant and worthy of love.”
Despite the vehemence in his voice, Northam appeared relaxed as he spoke. He watched the chickens cluck and scratch around the ground at his feet. When he raised his gaze to hers, however, fierce paternal determination smouldered within those dark brown eyes. Sofia thought of her own father’s eyes, how they flickered briefly and dispassionately in her direction. At no point in her childhood had Sofia received even a fraction of the extraordinary devotion that burned bright in Northam’s eyes.
“English law prevents both Zachariah and Nora from inheriting all that I have as a duke, but they will always have all that I can give them as a man. Zach needs friends. Genuine friends. If that friendship is found in the stables or the kitchens, that’s perfectly acceptable to me. After all, I found my dearest friend amongst the servants of Northam Hall, a fact my mother still finds abhorrent.” He smirked and some of the worry lines smoothed from his brow.
Sofia nodded and spoke past the coarse dryness that had coated her throat. “An organised game and a picnic perhaps? Invite the servants he is most comfortable with along with the boys you mentioned.”
“An excellent idea, Miss Lioni. What games did you play as a child? Perhaps we can make it a celebration of the Tuscan culture.”
Sofia’s lips switched with a smile. “I played with my brother and his friends. Not one of our games was appropriate for aristocratic Englishmen, and certainly not for their daughters.”
“Come now, Miss Lioni. I’m not so high in the instep as all that. I’ve been known to remove my cravat out of doors from time to time.” He indicated to his bare neck, scandalous indeed by aristocratic English standards. “I helped build that ridiculous goat loft.” He waved in the general direction of the goat paddock. “And I repaired the duchess’s fence when a tree fell upon it shortly before we wed.” Sofia raised sceptical eyes to his. He maintained her gaze for several seconds before chucking and shifting his attention to his boots. “Admittedly, I had the assistance of some two dozen servants for that particular task, but it was a very large oak tree and I more than pulled my weight. I’ve still got the calluses to prove it.”
“I am certain you were paramount in the undertaking.”
“Don’t think I don’t know when I am being mocked, Miss Lioni.”
She grinned and they resumed their walk.
“Truly though, Your Grace. I suffered a broken finger and permanently scarred both elbows from our childhood games. My brother, Oliver, dislocated his arm in a game of calcio storico fiorentino, and it wasn’t even a particularly rowdy match. It’s played with a ball and two teams try to carry it to the opposing team’s goal. There are very few rules pertaining to violence in calcio storico. Punching, kicking, biting, hair grabbing, and head butting are all not only permissible, but encouraged.”
Northam grimaced. “Alight, I concede. You Tuscans are made of tougher stuff than my English brethren.”
Sofia had been so distracted by their easy conversation that she had lost track of her surroundings until they circled back in view of the kitchen doors.
“Perhaps an infant’s version of the game,” she offered. “Our bambini piccoli sometimes play where control of the ball changes with a tap on the shoulder rather than a maul upon the ground.”
The duke nodded his approval. “Thank you for the stroll, Miss Lioni. We’ll talk more about the picnic sometime next week.” He bowed then and turned back in the direction of the stables.
Sofia had seenher brother three times since arriving at Northam Hall. Each time she had arrived without the previous duke’s documents, and each time his mood had worsened and their interactions had become more combative. Sofia had cajoled and lectured, shared endearing stories about the children, and encouraged him to accept a position with Annie’s brother, who was employed as a master gardener in Cornwall. All to convince him that there were better options than blackmail. But he had given no indication of relenting despite Sofi’s mounting distress.
What she had not done, but what she should have done from the start, was flatly refuse to help him. At times her silence had been altruistic, driven by her certainty that if she drew a line in the sand, Oliver would simply discard Sofia as a resource and obtain a sample of the old duke”s writing through other, faster means. But there were other times when Oliver’s intoxicated bluster felt threatening, and she had walked away feeling like the worst sort of coward.
She was finished allowing herself to be bullied. Today, Sofia would use the only leverage she had… herself.
Oliver could have his revenge or his sister, not both. Sofia bit her quivering lower lip, desperate to silence the voice in her head that was bellowing the truth she couldn’t bear to acknowledge. He won’t think I am worth the five thousand pounds he plans to steal. And then she would be alone. Again. Even if she stood her ground with Oliver and somehow managed to pluck his claws from the Anson’s flesh, she would still have to leave this place. Remaining meant living a lie, because some betrayals were too much to forgive. There was no scenario which allowed for her to keep this life, to hold tight to a happy ending for herself. But maybe she could win one for the Ansons. For Christopher.
It had become increasingly difficult to think of him by any other name. She knew he had long since ceased thinking of her as ‘Miss Lioni.’Would he still think of her as Sofia after she was gone?
A musty decay permeated the air of the hunting box when Sofia arrived and peaked her head in the door. The sour smell clung to the back of her throat. The moment Sofia realised Oliver was not to be found indoors, she hurried to leave and circled around the back.
At the crash of broken glass, her steps slowed, the muscles in her abdomen clenching in recognition of a danger her heart refused to heed.
“Oli? Is that you?”
“Who the fuck else would it be, Sof?” His slurred Italian echoed through the otherwise vacant woods.
“You”re drunk. Where did you even get that bottle? You haven’t any money.”
“Same place I’ve gotten every other bottle—friends in town. I wouldn’t spend all day drinking if you’d find those papers instead of playing governess.”
“I’m not playing governess. I am their governess. Can we sit down and talk about this?” Even as she said the words, she could see the futility of them. He could hardly stand and was every bit as belligerent as the last time she had come.
She wished she could excise that visit from her memory.Drunk on a dangerous mixture of alcohol and desperation, he had ranted about family loyalty… a concept he had not exhibited in years. Sofia had lost her temper, and, unencumbered by the caution of sobriety, Oliver’s response had been brutal. Though he used only words, they had lashed out at every vulnerable place in her heart.
Sofia sighed. “I love you. You know I do, but?—”
With two massive, shockingly steady steps, Oliver pressed into her space, close enough that she could feel his breath wafting across the top of her head. Retreating backwards a step, she stumbled over a tree root, catching herself against the corner of the cabin and scraping her forearm.
“But what, Sofia?” He sneered, arms akimbo. “But you care more about the filthy family that destroyed my life than you care about your own brother? Or maybe your loyalty lies with that valet you’re so cosy with.” He spat on the ground at her feet. “Really Sofi, you couldn’t do any better than to become a servant’s whore?”
She flinched, unable to reconcile the teasing, adventurous boy of her childhood with the volatile man before her. Oliver had rarely been so much as cavalier with her fragile, young feelings. And cruel was something he had never been. Until now.
Their gazes locked, his nostrils flaring with every breath. “I thought you were on my side Sofia, but what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be. At least for once I can be grateful we don’t share the same blood. It’s bad enough having a bigamist for a father without having a traitorous coward as a sister.”
Like a burst of icy water through her veins, his vicious words tore through Sofia.
Her lips parted, but no words would come, only a series of sharp, whimpering gasps. Tears flooded Oliver’s eyes, then plummeted down his cheeks as a stricken look overtook him. He reached for her but she leapt to the side. His fingers clamped around her wrist only briefly as he lost his balance with her abrupt retreat.
“Get your hands off me.” Sofia took one step backwards, then another, the sob she refused to release burning inside of her chest. Like a wounded animal, she turned and ran, not slowing her pace until Oliver’s pleas for her to return melted away into the whipping wind and spattering rain of a fast-approaching summer storm.
Thunder rumbled in a long, menacing growl when Sofia finally paused to catch her breath. Another mile and she would be home. Not home. Northam Hall. She would hide away in her bedchamber and pray the night was long enough and her sleep deep enough that, by morning, some of the sting from Oliver’s words would have faded and the lonely hole at the centre of her chest wouldn’t feel so vast.
It was late enough that the kitchens would be quiet, and there would be few witnesses to the sadness Sofia knew she could not hide. Christopher would be there, lingering in the hope that their paths would cross. The thought of his concerned gaze didn’t make her uneasy, though it probably should. Even if she could tell him nothing of her problems, his presence, knowing he cared, would lessen her grief. Sofia tore through the overgrown bridal path, her skirts heavily laden with mud and slapping against her calves as she moved with a renewed sense of purpose.