Chapter 1
Grosvenor Square, London
There was no satisfaction to be found in returning to London for another season, especially one that featured Sophia’s come-out.
Last year, she could hide behind Dorothea, who was on a mission to find the most eligible bachelor London had to offer.
No one had expected Sophia to court suitors and be at her most charming, since her elder sister had drawn the attention.
Dorry had ended up marrying Miles Shaw, who was not London’s most eligible bachelor.
But that mattered little, for she was made to see what great worth there was in becoming Mrs. Shaw, even if it had taken nearly losing him to realize it.
Sophia sat on a cushioned Chippendale chair, which matched the mahogany desk and bed frame.
She liked her yellow and gold baroque-papered room with its view that overlooked Brook Street and the houses opposite.
The quiet hours spent here gave her solace, helping in a small way to equip her for the activities that must be spent without.
That night they were to go to Lord Chawleigh’s London house to begin their season.
It had been two years since they had seen their Surrey neighbors.
First, Sophia’s father had died. Then, last year, Lady Chawleigh had taken ill, and her sickness progressed over the course of the spring.
Robert remained with her on the estate, while Lord Chawleigh traveled back and forth from London, first tending to his wife, then returning for the most urgent parliamentary sessions.
Lady Chawleigh died early in the summer, prolonging the absence of social calls that had begun with the earl’s death.
Sophia had not regretted it, for Robert still made her uncomfortable.
He was not unkind as he had been in his youth, but he paid her more attention than she wished for.
With any great hope, he would have turned his attention elsewhere since they had last met.
Restless, her attention fell on her reticule that lay on the desk.
She pulled open its strings, and from the bottom of the cloth bag removed a tiny key, tied to a blue ribbon.
Listening for any hint that one of her siblings was about to invade her sanctuary, she inserted the key into the narrow desk drawer and pulled it open.
Inside was a supple book with a pastel-blue cloth cover whose pages were bound together by ribbon-covered wire.
She allowed her fingers to explore the soothing, familiar texture, then set it on the desk and opened it carefully.
She had not looked at it in recent months, but something about having to begin her London season caused her to reach for its comfort.
The first page contained a date: June 7, 1802.
Underneath was a drawing of the stretch of lawn in front of Chawleigh Manor.
A few of the lawn balls could be made out, but there were no people.
Sophia did not draw figures well enough to have attempted it.
She turned to the second page, which held the words, “Mr. Felix Harwood.” Those she had written in the prettiest hand she possessed.
And although she had been tempted at the age of fifteen to write it again and again, and to add “Mrs. Felix Harwood” underneath it, she had resisted the childish impulse.
Next to his name were three pressed yellow trefoils, which had been trampled under his feet from where he stood at the start of the game.
A scant memento from the day, but they were all she had.
That, and the words her father let fall over dinner about how Lord Chawleigh held the advowson for Mr. Harwood’s father.
The vicar had boarded and tutored Robert before he went off to Eton.
“Apparently,” her father had said, “Lord Chawleigh saw potential in young Harwood and paid for his schooling with a charge to keep his son in line.” Sophia had seen for herself how gifted Mr. Harwood was in this.
It appeared, then, that both Mr. Harwood and his father had a patron in Lord Chawleigh.
“His benevolence paid off, for he worked as a quarter-sessions clerk and helped enforce game laws, which benefited both Chawleigh and myself.” Her father had given one other precious bit of information—Mr. Harwood was to transfer to a more prestigious post in Customs in Brighton, where he planned to join the yeomanry to guard the coast from the French.
Therefore, she knew not to expect to see him again when she visited Chawleigh Manor.
She turned another thick, worn page of her memento book, and on this was a newspaper clipping from the Surrey Gazette, dated February, 1804.
“Mr. Felix Harwood, only son of the Vic. Thomas Harwood of Farnham, has accepted a commission as Lieut. in the East Surrey Yeomanry.”
Sophia remembered the day she had stumbled on the article.
It had been during a dull season when their father had once again left for London without them and invitations at home were few.
With nothing to do, she read the newspaper from front to back and gasped audibly when she stumbled upon his name.
Fortunately, no one had been there to question her reaction.
What a shock to read of Mr. Harwood in the paper when she had almost given up hope of hearing of him again!
Once she was sure that the newspaper had been read by everyone, she slit the page with the article before Mrs. Pratt could take it.
That had been mere weeks before her father’s untimely death—before their lives had tumbled into the chaos of grief.
Nothing else occurred to feed her secret hopes regarding Mr. Harwood since the article, but she kept them alive by remembering how deftly he had managed Robert.
How he had defended her, and the smile and wink he had sent her afterward on the lawn.
She sometimes wondered if he thought of her, too, after that day.
Perhaps he was also shy and dared not pursue her?
But then she laughed at herself for entertaining such a ridiculous notion.
Mr. Harwood was not a feeble creature like her; he was not shy.
And even a ninny would know that without a proper introduction, he could hardly approach her—even less begin a correspondence when they were near strangers.
Besides, who was to say he had ever viewed her in any way but a poor, diffident creature?
Mere facts did nothing to dampen her thoughts in his direction, however, and hope persisted.
Desperate for more to fill her memento book dedicated to Mr. Harwood, she had at last attempted to draw a portrait from memory, but it was badly done, and she took a knife to the page and removed it.
The three pages were all she had, but it was sufficient; she was now wise enough to know that nothing would come of this tendre she had developed from a chance encounter four years ago.
Still, it soothed her to look over the pages whenever she had a social event she did not look forward to attending.
“Sophia!” Her sister was coming down the corridor toward her bedroom.
She hurried to put her book in the drawer and managed to close it before Camilla opened the door and strode in. Heart beating fast, Sophia tucked the key under a stack of papers in what she hoped was a discreet gesture.
“Are you ready to go? I’ve just learned it is not to be only our family and Lord Chawleigh’s this evening, so we do have hope of a pleasant dinner.
” Camilla gave her a droll look, and Sophia smiled.
Having noticed Robert’s budding interest two years ago, Camilla had won her heart by declaring that he was the very last man whom Sophia should marry.
“For he would crush you,” she had said. It was comforting to have an ally in her sister.
“Who else is to be there?” Sophia intertwined her fingers, steeling herself for a larger crowd than she had prepared for.
No social situation was easy, but at least when it was just Lord Chawleigh and his son, she had learned that by merely offering a few banal remarks, she could pass practically unnoticed.
“Mr. Perkins, whom we know, and a Mr. Harwood, whom we don’t.” Camilla went over to Sophia’s wardrobe and examined the gowns that hung there. “I wish I could wear this gold-colored one. It would suit me nicely, if only it fit.”
Sophia’s mind had remained stuck on the name. Mr. Harwood. After so many years of thinking of him but never breathing the name aloud, she was suddenly adrift. Her next comment flew out unguarded. “But we do know him.”
Camilla turned, her eyebrows lifted in inquiry, and Sophia was forced to go on. “I…I think we met him once at Chawleigh Manor some years ago. You played lawn bowls with him.”
“Ah, true. I had forgotten him,” Camilla replied, fingering another gown with coquelicot trim.
Really! Sophia was astonished that anyone could forget Mr. Harwood.
He was the gentlemanly ideal in every way.
And now she would see him again for the first time in four years.
Would he remember her? Surely, he must! If only he would not recall her as a spiritless creature.
She would have to make an effort to be as lively as was in her power.
She licked her dry lips and reached up to pinch her cheeks before stopping herself.
Her sister must not know that she was anticipating this meeting.
“I will tell Mama that you are ready.” Camilla swept past Sophia on her way to the door.
“No!” Sophia stood suddenly, and her sister turned back in surprise.
“It…it’s only that I have worn this gown so recently.
I am of a mind to change. Perhaps the one with the leaf embroidery?
” The gown she had thought good enough for Robert Cunningworth was not nearly elegant enough for Mr. Harwood.
She attempted a smile, hoping her sister would not think her behavior overly strange.