Chapter 31
“Lady Lavinia!”
Sophia’s voice rang, and before Lavinia could enter the drawing room fully, the girl barreled into her, arms looped tight around her waist. In the onslaught, Lavinia nearly toppled, but caught herself with a braced hand on a nearby table.
“I have something for you,” Sophia gasped, her face alight with purpose and pride. “Well, not for you—but for Whisper. Look!” She uncurled her hand to reveal a blue ribbon.
Lavinia did not trust herself to speak for a moment, so she simply ran her thumb over the ribbon, savoring the child’s delight, and smiled. “It is perfect, Sophia. Shall we see if our little prince will wear it?”
Sophia squealed in agreement and darted from her arms, nearly tripping over her own hem.
She fished Whisper from behind a sofa cushion, where he had been playing, and presented the kitten for the crowning.
The animal submitted to the ordeal with the weary patience of one long resigned to the indignities of affection.
Lavinia kneeled on the rug and let Sophia tie the ribbon in a haphazard bow. Whisper yawned, then set about licking his own shoulder, as if that might restore his dignity. Sophia beamed, her face flushed, and for a moment, Lavinia pretended the world was exactly as it ought to be.
“Now,” Lavinia said, “we must begin our lesson. I believe we left off at the matter of tea service, but today we shall attempt a full conversation, as if we were in the finest drawing room in London.”
Sophia’s brow creased. “Must I remember all the rules?”
“Only the important ones,” Lavinia replied. “Such as: never ever discuss politics unless you are prepared to fight a duel on the spot with the strictest of matrons.”
Sophia giggled, her nerves seemingly melting away. “But ladies do not duel.”
“Precisely,” Lavinia said. “That is why we are the cleverer sex.”
They set up their lesson on the low table, Lavinia pouring the tea, and Sophia arranging the biscuits. Lavinia prompted her through the correct forms of address, the protocols for refusing a scone, and the subtleties of polite disagreement.
Sophia took it all in, but her attention was divided: Whisper, now emboldened by his ribbon, leaped onto the table and promptly knocked over an empty teacup. The sound was not so much a crash as a small, dignified thud, but Sophia gasped anyway.
“Whisper!” Sophia scooped up the cat. “You mustn’t interrupt a lady at tea!”
“Quite right,” Lavinia said, “even feline gentlemen must observe the rules of etiquette.”
Whisper submitted to further snuggling, this time in Sophia’s lap, and the lesson resumed.
If Lavinia’s voice shook, neither Sophia nor the kitten remarked on it.
She steered the conversation to softer topics, letting Sophia ramble about her latest watercolors, her plans for the Rowsons’ assembly, and her certainty that Whisper would one day learn to sit for a portrait.
The afternoon wore on, and Lavina wondered if she would remember every detail: the warmth of Sophia’s hands, the set of her mouth when she concentrated, the way her eyes glimmered when she said something terribly clever and then tried to hide her satisfaction.
Lavinia wondered if she would remember the exact shade of blue on the ribbon, or if it would blur in memory, the way so many other lovely things had blurred.
You are cataloguing the moment, she thought. You are making a reliquary of the ordinary, so that when it is gone, you will not be empty.
As the lesson wound down and the last of the biscuits had been consumed, Lavinia nudged Whisper into his basket. The kitten, for once, did not protest, but curled himself into a ball.
“Lady Lavinia?” Sophia’s voice was small and almost hesitant, as though she had sensed that something was wrong. “Will you come tomorrow, too?”
Lavinia set down her cup and drew in a breath that seemed too large for the room. “Sophia,” she said, taking the girl’s hands between her own, “I have something important to tell you.”
Sophia’s brow puckered. “Is it a secret?”
Lavinia managed to smile. “Not exactly. But it is…difficult. Today will be our last lesson together.”
Sophia’s mouth dropped open, and for a second, she simply stared, as if trying to force the words to reverse themselves. “But… but… why?” Her hands trembled in Lavinia’s. “Have I been dreadful?”
“No, darling,” Lavinia said, heart breaking with every word. “You have been the most wonderful student I could hope for. It is only that—” She steeled herself. “I am to be married next week, to Lord Dawnford. I must move away from Evermere. There are many arrangements to make.”
The silence was a living thing. Sophia pulled her hands away and pressed them to her mouth, then looked down at Whisper in his basket, as if the answer might be found in the cat’s unintelligible gaze.
“But you can’t,” she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that made Lavinia want to weep. “Who will help me with Whisper? Who will tell me about poetry, or music, or how to talk at balls? Who will—” She stopped, and her breath hitched. “Who will make Father smile again?”
The last question struck so deep that Lavinia almost lost her composure entirely. She reached for Sophia, pulling the girl into her lap, holding her tight as the child began to sob in earnest.
“Listen to me, Sophia,” Lavinia whispered into her hair, stroking the brown curls as if she could calm the storm within. “You are so brave, and so clever, and even if I may not be your mother, I will always care for you. Always. And you may visit me whenever you wish. I should like that very much.”
Sophia buried her face in Lavinia’s shoulder, and Lavinia rocked her, the way she had once done for Frances on nights when the world felt unkind and the dark too large.
“It won’t be the same,” Sophia sobbed. “It will never be the same.”
“No,” Lavinia said, her own voice thick. “It won’t. But some things must change, even when we wish they wouldn’t.”
For a long time, neither moved. Whisper, sensing a break in the rules, climbed out of his basket and wedged himself between them, purring so loudly that it was almost comical.
Eventually, Sophia’s sobs dwindled to hiccups. She pulled away, her eyes red and raw, but her grip on Lavinia’s sleeve did not ease. “Is Lord Dawnford agreeable?” she asked with the blunt honesty of children.
Lavinia hesitated. “He is…kind enough,” she said, not knowing whether to lie or not. Her throat burned, so she just pressed a kiss to Sophia’s brow and held her.
Movement at the door caught her eye, and Lavinia looked up to see Tristan standing on the threshold, half-shadowed by the hall. She had no idea how long he had been there, but his face was as closed and expressionless as a stone.
Sophia saw him, too, and scrubbed her eyes furiously. “Father, tell Lady Lavinia she can’t leave us.”
Tristan entered, and the tension in his frame was almost palpable. He paused at the edge of the rug, as if the distance between them were a moat he did not wish to cross.
“Lady Lavinia has duties elsewhere, Sophia,” he said.
“No, she doesn’t,” Sophia snapped, tears brimming again. “No one else could ever—” Her voice failed, and she clamped her mouth shut, ashamed of the outburst.
Lavinia set Sophia gently aside and stood, smoothing her dress and composing herself. “It is all right, Sophia. There is nothing more to say.”
Tristan nodded, but did not move or speak for a long moment.
At last, in a voice so careful it was almost gentle, he said, “Sophia, would you take Whisper to the kitchen? I believe Cook has some cream for him.”
Sophia bit her lip, then bent and gathered the kitten, holding him to her chest. She lingered for a second, then ran to Lavinia and wrapped her arms around her waist in a desperate squeeze.
“Adieu,” she whispered.
“Not adieu,” Lavinia replied. “Never adieu.”
Sophia nodded, then ran from the room, clutching Whisper like a lifeline.
The silence that fell was nearly intolerable. Lavinia tried to meet Tristan’s gaze, but the force of his attention made it impossible. She turned to gather her things. When she straightened, Tristan was still there with his hands folded behind his back.
He said nothing.
Lavinia took a step toward the door. “You must tell her that she is the best part of you.”
He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, the blue of his gaze so intense that it nearly undid her.
“I am sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “It has nothing to do with you.”
He took a step closer to her. “I hope,” he said, and his voice was low and rough, “that I will see you again.”
Lavinia felt the words like a wound. She wanted to say, And I, you. She wanted to say, Please, do not let me go. But she knew what the cost would be, and she could not pay it.
So, she gathered herself, falling back on the words that had served her before. “You see me now, but you won’t tomorrow. And that’s how it has to be.”