Chapter 6
Chapter Six
It did not. Nor the day after. Two days bled together, with Sophie holding to her dream by her very fingertips.
She could push Mr. Whitcomb no more, but neither could she trespass on Andrew’s hospitality if she was making no progress.
By the second evening of Andrew’s late arrival and stilted conversation, she began to wish that she would hear from Whitcomb, even if it was negative, purely for a direction.
She was entirely useless, a layabout. And she despised feeling unproductive.
Had she made a mistake? It was not the first time she had wondered that very thing, but the question seemed to have taken up residence in her mind now—had brought a trunk, begun to unpack, and was clearly settling in for the long haul.
Her chest was strangely tight, her fingers buzzing with all the movement her future lacked.
She pushed out a breath, leaning her forehead against the glass of her bedchamber’s window that looked out over the courtyard garden.
It was a beautiful view, but she did not see any of it.
She was useless in her personal life, yes, but could she be useful here?
How could she repay the debt she was accruing toward Andrew and his family?
Perhaps the housekeeper would have an idea for her. It was almost embarrassing to ask, but she absolutely could not sit here for the next fortnight, twiddling her thumbs. Maybe the butler could procure that morning’s newspaper again, and she could see if there was a miraculous opportunity there.
There will be none, a small voice murmured in her mind. It took you years to find this opportunity.
Sophie gritted her teeth against her own pessimism. It had no place here.
Striding from the room with pretended confidence, she made for Mrs. Spencer’s domain.
The home was well-furnished and bespoke the Langfords’ wealth without being opulent.
Sophie knew from her upbringing how well-to-do the Langfords were, though they had not always been that way.
Andrew’s grandfather had made his fortune—though that term was used in the loosest of terms—in shipping, and had managed the transition from middle class to gentry quite smoothly.
And Andrew’s father had solidified their place in society when she was not yet out of the nursery through a handful of very commendable investments.
At this point, they were nearly the foremost family in the neighborhood.
Mother had loved Mrs. Langford—though that might have been more for how well-connected they were.
And now Mrs. Langford was gone. Sophie’s heart pinched at that, and at the reminder of how Andrew’s face had crumpled when he spoke of it.
Was that what had changed him from the man she had known?
How very much Sophie had missed by chasing after her dreams—by running away from her duties.
She had not even heard from her own mother for years; likely, the woman was too despondent at Sophie’s lack of a future to bother with her present.
She would have loved for things to be different with her family, but she’d about reached the end of her allowance for self-centered despondency. It was time for action.
She found the housekeeper in the kitchen, speaking with the cook.
“Oh, Ms. Sophie, were you in need of something?” she asked, spotting her hovering in the doorway.
Ms. Sophie. Her mouth lifted at the reminder of how her youngest class of students had always referred to her.
How she missed them. They would be learning geometry this month—hopefully, little Eloise would get the support she needed from Sophie’s replacement.
And someone would need to keep Grace well in hand.
The young woman far preferred her daydreams to mathematics.
“Nuncheon will be ready in just an hour, miss, but I may have something to hold you over,” the cook offered.
Sophie shook herself from her recollections and smiled at them both. “Thank you, but an hour will be perfect. I only had a quick question for Mrs. Spencer.”
The housekeeper showed no outward sign of surprise, but followed Sophie into the hall.
“What can I do for you, Ma’am?” Mrs. Spencer asked.
“I meant to ask you the same, actually. I am very grateful to Mr. Langford for allowing me to stay here for a time, and I would like to help him in some way. I haven’t the foggiest how to go about that, though, and hoped you might help me?”
The woman’s brows lifted. Drat, this had been a terrible idea—forget optimism and being productive. Perhaps she would just hide away in her rooms, praying that a letter came from the Whitcomb project.
“That is very kind of you, Ma’am, but I cannot—well, I suppose…”
Sophie jumped at the crack in Mrs. Spencer’s disapproval. “Yes?”
“Mr. Langford generally takes lunch to work, but has neglected to the last several days. I thought to send Bess with it today, but if you would like…?” She appeared immensely skeptical, but Sophie clapped her hands together.
“Wonderful! Shall I take it now?”
The housekeeper let slip a smile, which lifted her cheeks and brought a sparkle to her usually stern facade. “I will have the lunch prepared and meet you in the entry in a quarter hour?”
“Brilliant. Thank you, Mrs. Spencer.”
The woman dipped into a curtsy and left, shoes clicking against the floor.
Sophie gathered her coat and reticule and arrived in the entry just in time to meet Mrs. Spencer. The woman provided her with a covered basket and offered use of the carriage and Bess’s accompaniment.
“No, thank you. If you’ll but direct me—I believe Andrew said it was rather nearby and I would enjoy the walk.”
The woman relayed instructions, and Sophie was off.
Her chest loosened some as she stepped into the wan winter light.
The day held a crisp chill, and heavy clouds hung low in the sky, but it was refreshing all the same.
It was incredible to have purpose, even one so small as this.
In the past three years of teaching at the Bristol Seminary, she’d had hardly a moment of respite between her duties there and the social requirements that came from staying with Grandfather.
And later, with those that came from caring for him as his health declined.
Sophie nodded at a passing woman, then crossed the street, glancing to the side to gain her bearings before continuing on when something small but proportionately heavy hit her bonnet.
Then another and another. She lifted her face to the sky only to have several water droplets splash in quick succession across her forehead and cheeks.
It was raining. Cold, wet rain that was quickly penetrating even the fabric of her thick coat. And as she stood there, staring upwards, it began to pick up pace.
She lifted her skirts, lengthening her stride.
It could not be too much farther until Andrew’s office, but the sky suddenly seemed to open up entirely, dumping its contents and soaking her as effectively as if she’d been dunked in the pond near her family’s home.
As the deluge continued, it became increasingly difficult to see.
She might have turned around, but she would be equally lost going in the opposite direction.
A bricked half-wall named the next street, and she hurried up to read it, breathing out a short sigh of relief that it was where she needed to be.
Buildings loomed in front of her, great shadows in the hazy landscape, and though the traffic had certainly thinned—the foot traffic especially—she still had to wait as several horses pulling various equipages splashed water up the sides of the cobbled streets before running across to better see the signs above the shops.
Cold had begun to press her in earnest, seeking entrance into her very skin. Her coat was heavy from water.
Drat, but it was nearly impossible to see the painted words above the multi-paned windows.
There was a milliner. And that might be a tailor.
Should she seek refuge in one of them, or was she close?
She passed a dark area that must be a space between buildings and held the basket tight as a gust of wind sent a shock of cold through her.
She needed to take shelter somewhere. The hat shop, maybe; it was rather likely that hers was near about ruined.
Then a columned facade came into view, and relief doused her along with the rain. There it was. Sternam’s Bank stood out in bold letters above the Corinthian building. The heavy door resisted her pull as she attempted entrance, but she managed it with no small amount of grace.
Truly, it was no small amount—because there was not an ounce of grace to the way she leaned back and dragged it with all her strength, using her shoulder to prop it aside as she slipped, and slid, inside.
Water dripped from her person onto the tiled floor, and the large room within was still, despite having several occupants.
Men at various tall desks near the back wall stared unabashedly at her and her tremulous smile as she lifted her chin. She moved to the counter closest to her. “Good day, I am seeking—”
“Sophie?” Andrew appeared from a side office, and Sophie nearly melted with relief.
She stepped forward—sloshed, really, her walking boots having taken on water—and Andrew hurried to her, handing off a pile of papers to one of the men still gawking at her from his desk.
“Are you well?” he asked in an undertone as he stopped in front of her. His hands lifted for a moment, as if to reach out for hers, but then they fell back to his side.
“Rather wet, actually.”
A snort escaped him, and it brought a smile to her face. But the smile soon disappeared as a shiver overtook her. Rain in January was brutally cold, and the truth of that seemed to catch up to her in an instant.
“I brought you your lunch,” she said, holding out the basket.
The basket was drenched.
“Oh heavens, I am so sorry—I—”
“Come.” He took her arm, steering her through the room and past the dozens of wide eyes to the door he’d just come from.