Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
She had never properly appreciated warmth until that afternoon. Mrs. Spencer had drawn her a bath and taken away her near-ruined clothing. And now, ensconced in a warm dress and dry gloves, Sophie felt she could conquer the world.
Visiting hours were certainly past, but with this euphoric feeling, she ought to try her hand once more at Mr. Whitcomb.
She had nearly reached the foot of the stairs, taking the last three at a skip, when a knock sounded on the door. Andrew’s butler nodded at Sophie before opening it.
Sophie intended to pass by, but the voice sounded familiar and feminine. Curiosity pulled at her, and she hovered by the stairs, trying to place it.
“Mr. Langford should be expecting a visit from us—is he at home?”
“If you will give me a moment, I shall inquire.” The butler stepped back, revealing the women behind him, and Sophie froze, trapped.
“Sophia Renard—that cannot possibly be you!”
It had been years since someone had referred to her by her full name.
It would have been jarring even without the fear accompanying the vision of two women from her home village standing in Andrew’s doorway.
Sophie took a halting step forward, mind whirling for an excuse for why she was in Andrew’s home, but Mrs. Haverwick simply rushed on in her garrulous way.
“Or, I suppose it cannot be Renard any longer—now, what was it…” She turned to her daughter, then cut off as she lifted a hand to Miss Haverwick’s bonnet. “Oh gracious, the wind has done a number on your trimmings, Eleanor.” Her gaze swung back to Sophie. “You know my Eleanor, yes?”
“Yes, of course. How do you do, Miss Haverwick?” Sophie mumbled, curtseying.
The butler looked between them both, his mouth showing concern. But the blessed servant took the situation swiftly in hand, saying, “If you ladies will, I would be happy to see you to the drawing room.”
Mrs. Haverwick brightened, gaze swinging back to the man.
“Delightful. Yes.” She pushed into the home, her daughter, Eleanor, at her side.
“Sophia, how wonderful that we should happen to time our visits so that we might catch up with you as well. Though—” the woman’s sharp eyes swept over Sophie, and Sophie’s breath hitched, “—some might consider it rather inappropriate of you to visit a man unchaperoned.” She tsked good-naturedly, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “I shall not say a word. Even more fortuitous that we should have arrived together.”
The woman thought Sophie was just here for a social call. That was good—her breath came a little more easily. They would need to keep it that way, if possible. And give her reason not to mention this supposed visit to anyone.
As though they were a flock of unruly sheep, the butler herded them into the drawing room, Mrs. Haverwick talking nonstop, her daughter piping in whenever she could manage a word, and Sophie attempting to smile, nod, and respond when a question was asked and not immediately run over by a second.
Eleanor Haverwick was four or five years Sophie’s junior and sat herself beside Sophie on the chaise, grasping her hand as though they were longtime friends.
“It has been far too long—I must hear everything. Your parents were not particularly forthcoming with the details.”
That was not surprising—they would not wish to expound on Sophie’s academic escapades. They never had, even before they’d decided she was far too bookish.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Andrew appeared in the doorway. Relief and trepidation tingled up her spine. He was a welcome ally against the formidable Haverwick women, but would he join her in the ruse that she was only visiting?
A smile spread across his face, but it did not crease his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such delightful company?” he asked, striding in and taking a seat in an armchair situated between Sophie and Eleanor and Mrs. Haverwick.
“It was provident, indeed, sir.” Mrs. Haverwick scooted to the edge of her seat as if about to share a great on dit.
“Eleanor and I had just a moment to ourselves, and determined to spend it with you. And we happened to arrive for a visit at nearly the same moment as dear Sophia here. It is a veritable Weybridge reunion, is it not?”
Briefly, Andrew’s gaze touched Sophie’s own. He gave her the slightest of nods, and despite not a word passing between them, she understood that he was now in on the pretense. She allowed herself to relax into the conversation.
One might think Mrs. Haverwick a great gossip, and she was, but she gossiped with everyone, which made her far more palatable.
The woman hadn’t a cruel bone in her body; she simply enjoyed sharing information.
She ought to have worked for a newspaper.
Though with Sophie’s experience in the world of English men, they would not have a woman as an editor.
One of the grand things about Mrs. Haverwick was that she held a conversation all on her own—Sophie was hardly required to engage.
The woman wished to know all about Andrew and his family, but before gaining an answer, desired to learn how Andrew’s bank fared, whether either of them had attended the theater recently, had they heard about Mr. Fletcher and the ghastly woman he’d married, and would they be attending Mrs. Carleton’s musicale the following week.
Then she had invited them both to dinner on Tuesday—just a small gathering, you understand.
Only two dozen of my dearest friends. Well, perhaps three—and together, Sophie and Andrew had spoken maybe a dozen words.
It was actually rather enjoyable. Sophie did not have much contact with her parents—in fact, it was nonexistant—and being caught up on the goings on of the town that she had called home for nearly two decades was nostalgic in a way. Comforting.
“But where is your husband, Sophia?” Mrs. Haverwick asked, twirling her gaze and overenthusiastic gesturing towards Sophie.
Sophie laughed. It was surprising they had made it far enough into the conversation before she was asked about her matrimonial options.
Regardless of her academic achievements, the first thing on every individual’s mind was whether she was successful where it truly counted.
Even Andrew had brought up her lack of success in that endeavor. “If you find him, do let me know.”
Mrs. Haverwick’s brow furrowed, but her mind was almost immediately caught by another fancy, turning to her daughter to declare she must tell them about the new pelisse she’d just acquired.
Eleanor, by contrast, did not seem to wish to speak of her pelisse. Instead, she leaned closer to Sophie. “I admit I dearly wish to hear about this man as well. Is he handsome? How did you meet?”
It was Sophie’s turn to scrunch her brows. Had she misled the Haverwicks with her attempt at wit? She never had been an incredible conversationalist, preferring numbers to people.
“Yes, do share, Sophia,” Mrs. Haverwick cut in. “Your mother said he is a titled man?”
Sophie’s tongue tripped over her words. “My mother?”
Both women nodded. “She has kept us apprised of your success.”
Sophie opened her mouth, closed it, and looked at Andrew. But rather than having answers for her, or an equal amount of confusion playing across his own brow, he was watching her intently, hands clasped between his knees. As if he, too, wished to know the answer.
“I… I do not know—what did my mother tell you?”
Miss Haverwick began to answer, but her mother suddenly gasped, eyes trained on the longcase clock across the room.
“Oh, dear heavens, Eleanor, we are meant to be at Lady Radcliff’s in five minutes, and we are a quarter of an hour from that part of town!
” She shot to her feet, and Andrew jerked to his in the next instant.
Mrs. Haverwick’s hands fluttered about her.
“Do forgive us, we had only wished to relay Tuesday’s invitation, I did not expect to find such delightful—but we must be off—drat, where did I leave my reti—there it is.
” She scooped down with surprising alacrity, grasping the purse that had fallen to the ground and moving for the door.
“I expect the entire story on Tuesday, Sophie! All the details! Come, Eleanor, make haste!”
The women tumbled from the house and into their carriage in record speed, leaving Andrew and Sophie in the drawing room doorway, staring off at them.
Immediately, Sophie grasped Andrew’s sleeve. “What on earth were they on about?”
“An appointment, I believe,” he responded. “It must be rather important.”
“No, Andrew, that business about my husband? And my mother?”
He swallowed, his eyes shifting from hers as he paced back into the drawing room. Sophie followed. Her mind spun with all the possible solutions to this particularly confusing equation, and not a one made sense.
“I have not asked about him, because I did not want to pry in what appeared to be a delicate situation…”
“Delicate situation? Him?”
He cleared his throat, adjusting his cravat and still not meeting her eye. “Your husband.”
“Andrew.” Sophie’s shock and confusion bled into those two syllables. “Andrew, I am not married.”