Chapter 8
"Do you prefer the roses or the delphinium, Lady Sophia?" Lavinia asked, pausing along the gravel path to let the girl consider the neat rows of white and blue blossoms.
Sophia barely glanced at the flower beds before lowering her eyes to the slate walkway. "I suppose the roses. They are... less blue."
"A keen observation. Blue is notoriously difficult to grow with any vibrancy, though these are well kept." Lavinia shaded her eyes with one hand, turning her face up toward the pale sun. "What do you say to a lesson out here today? I find fresh air makes everything seem more possible."
Sophia's only reply was the faintest lift of her shoulders.
Lavinia pressed on, leading the way along the path toward the low stone bench overlooking a crescent of spring tulips.
The air was spiced with the scent of new grass and clean earth, and though the morning was cool, sunlight gleamed off every surface.
She set her sketchbook and pencil case upon the bench, then turned to regard her pupil.
Sophia stood several feet away, arms crossed over her chest, chin tipped down at a defiant angle.
"Would you like to choose our seat?" Lavinia asked, gesturing with a sweep of her hand to the bench or to the grass beside the flowers.
The girl darted a wary look at her and said nothing.
"The bench then," Lavinia decided, settling onto it and spreading out her supplies with care. "Sit beside me when you wish."
She opened her sketchbook and began outlining the shape of the nearest tulip, letting the silence stretch.
Sophia remained rooted to her spot, face shuttered and lips pressed into a line.
Lavinia counted slowly to twenty, then added, "Did you know, Lady Sophia, that the first tulips brought to England caused a frenzy?
Some bulbs fetched prices higher than a horse. "
This earned her a curious glance. "Father says it is improper to discuss money."
"Fortunate for me, then, that your father is not here," Lavinia replied, her pencil moving in looping, careless circles.
She did not look up from her page. "I have always admired the brazen nature of a tulip.
It is the only flower bold enough to stand tall on a single, fragile stalk, no matter the wind. "
Sophia's gaze shifted to the flowerbeds, and after a pause she perched at the very edge of the bench, leaving a chasm of empty space between them.
Progress, Lavinia thought, and concealed her satisfaction by erasing the last line she'd drawn. "Have you ever sketched from life before?"
"I cannot draw," Sophia said, voice brittle.
"Nonsense. Everyone can draw. What they cannot do is stop worrying about being bad at it."
The girl looked at her from under lowered brows, uncertain whether to take offense.
"Try," Lavinia said, offering her a blank page and a sharpened pencil. "If you prefer, we can sketch the roses instead. They are less blue."
Sophia hesitated, then accepted the pencil with cautious fingers. She peered at the nearest bush and began, awkwardly, to copy the shape of a half-open blossom.
Lavinia returned to her own drawing, making hers deliberately imperfect—a very wide petal here, a slanting stem there. After several minutes, Sophia peeked over, and Lavinia angled her page to display the untidy, exuberant tulip. "You see? This one looks as if it is about to take flight."
Sophia gave a reluctant half-smile, quickly smothered.
Lavinia decided to press her luck. "What other lessons do you take here at Evermere? Music, I believe?"
"Yes."
"And your preferred composer?"
"Father says Mr. Clementi is the most appropriate."
"Appropriate," Lavinia repeated, with an exaggerated sigh. "What would you play if there were no such thing as appropriate?"
Sophia's answer was nearly inaudible. "Beethoven."
"A woman of taste," Lavinia said, lowering her voice as if imparting a secret. "When I was your age, my mother considered even the waltz scandalous. I practiced in secret, convinced the world would end if I missed a note."
Sophia looked at her with something almost like interest. "Did it?"
"The world?" Lavinia asked. "Not even a little."
The girl actually smiled then, and Lavinia caught the fleeting spark of it before it disappeared behind composure. She let the moment sit, then turned the conversation in a new direction. "Do you like books?"
"Yes."
"Which kind?"
"The ones with stories."
"All the best ones have stories. Which is your favorite?"
Sophia bent over her page, drawing in tight, anxious strokes. "I like the ones with pirates," she confessed. "But I am not supposed to read them."
"Ah," Lavinia said, nodding as though this were the most natural admission in the world. "Improper reading. My own favorite was The Adventures of Captain Jack and the Spanish Main. I read it eight times. My mother would have fainted if she’d ever opened the cover."
This won a soft laugh, so brief Lavinia was not sure she had heard it.
"If you could do anything in the world, Lady Sophia," Lavinia said, "what would it be? Anything at all. No one here to disapprove."
Sophia's pencil stilled. "I should like to ride a horse. A real one, not a pony."
"Why can't you?"
She kept her eyes on her page. "Father says it is too dangerous."
"I see," Lavinia said, though she did not. "Has your father ever fallen from a horse?"
Sophia shook her head, her expression growing distant. "He says it is his duty to protect me."
"And yet you wish to learn."
Sophia glanced at Lavinia, a look full of longing and fear. "Yes."
"Then perhaps we shall devise a plan," Lavinia said, returning to her sketch.
Sophia colored in the center of her rose, her movements growing less hesitant, and for a long while they worked side by side in companionable quiet.
Lavinia offered small, practical advice about shading or the curve of a petal, never once correcting Sophia's work.
The girl's posture relaxed, her shoulders lowering, her face less pinched with each passing moment.
They had nearly finished their sketches when a sudden shadow fell across the garden path. Lavinia looked up and felt her heart leap in her chest.
The Duke of Evermere stood a few yards away, his arms crossed and his expression forbidding. His eyes were intently on her, then they moved to Sophia, and the angle of his jaw left no doubt as to his displeasure.
"Lady Lavinia," he said, his voice like a blade drawn quietly from its sheath, "I was not aware that my daughter's lessons would be conducted out of doors."
Sophia's back straightened so abruptly her pencil snapped.
Lavinia rose to her feet. "I thought a change of scenery would benefit Lady Sophia. She has made excellent progress this morning."
His eyes narrowed. "Who gave you permission to take her from the house?"
Lavinia matched his gaze, refusing to yield an inch. "I did not realize the gardens were off-limits, Your Grace. If so, I apologize for the oversight."
"You will not apologize to me," Tristan said, stalking forward until he loomed over both women. "You will adhere to protocol. My daughter's safety is not a matter for creative interpretation."
Sophia shrank back, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Lavinia fought the urge to step in front of the girl, instead maintaining her composure. "Of course, Your Grace. I will remember it in future."
"See that you do," he snapped, before turning on his heel as if to leave.
But Lavinia could not allow the lesson to end in defeat. "If I may, Your Grace," she called, stopping him mid-stride.
He turned slowly, suspicion evident in every line of his face.
Lavinia met his stare with what she hoped was steadiness. "Lady Sophia has shown more initiative and enthusiasm this morning than I have seen since arriving. She responded to the exercise with genuine interest, and I have reason to believe—"
"My daughter's education is not subject to your whims, Lady Lavinia," he interrupted. "You are here to instruct her in the proper forms, not encourage rebellion."
"Is learning to sketch the proper forms rebellion, Your Grace?" She kept her voice cool, her chin lifted. "Or is it simply a different approach?"
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Sophia's voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. "Father?"
Tristan turned to her, his features shifting at the sound of her voice.
"May I stay a little longer? Lady Lavinia said we could finish only if you permitted it. We were only discussing the botanical names," she added, in a last-ditch effort to anchor the request in something sensible.
The duke's surprise was visible—he had not expected his daughter to speak up, much less make a request in front of an audience. For a long moment, he stood silent, indecision written plainly on his face.
At last, he said, "You may remain until the hour, Sophia. But henceforth, Lady Lavinia, you will seek my express permission before taking my daughter outside. And someone must accompany you at all times."
"Yes, Father." Sophia ducked her head in a nod.
Lavinia inclined her head in acquiescence, though she could not suppress a small, secret smile of victory.
The Duke looked at Lavinia then, and the air between them seemed to vibrate with a challenge. His eyes bore into hers, heated and unsettling.
"See that you remember," he said, and turned to leave.
Lavinia watched his retreating figure until he vanished behind the clipped hedges. She waited another moment before sitting again, her pulse still thrumming.
Sophia let out a breath she had plainly been holding. "You are not afraid of him," she said with the corner of her lips curving in wonder.
"Everyone is afraid of someone," Lavinia replied, glancing sideways. "But it is usually more interesting to pretend otherwise."
Sophia smiled a little.
Lavinia resumed her sketch, careful to keep her voice light when next she spoke. "Shall we finish our roses before he changes his mind?"
The girl bent to her page, and together they drew in silence, though thoughts of the Duke lingered in her mind.
He was prosperous, and clearly intelligent enough that his prosperity was no mere inheritance.
And he cared for his daughter; she had observed it in the way he stood like a sentry whenever Sophia was close to him.
What manner of tragedy could have turned him into such a strict, unfeeling man?