Chapter Four
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Sophie said as the hansom cab rolled onto Oxford Street, which bustled with people despite the wintry weather. “Can’t we devise some other way to get me a dress?”
“Well, I suppose we can fashion one out of the curtains in the drawing room, but such a dress won’t be good enough for Lady Cheshire’s ball, dear,” Aunt Mildred said. “You will be competing with all the nubile daughters of the ton.”
“Perhaps, I shouldn’t go to the ball then. After all, I wasn’t actually invited.”
“But you were invited. You have your invitation written in Lady Cheshire’s companion’s hand.”
“A hand you forced,” Sophie said. “Lady Cheshire doesn’t even know who I am. She will realize I was not on her list of invitees.”
“You needn’t worry about that. Her ladyship had a little visit from Agnes and me in her dreams. You are now foremost in her thoughts. She will remember inviting you.”
Sophie shook her head and laughed. Her aunts had a plan for everything.
“Now, when we get inside the drapers,” Aunt Agnes said as their hansom cab came to a stop, “all you need to do is browse, and let us worry about the rest.”
Sophie’s stomach clenched. “Can we not go elsewhere? Somewhere less conspicuous, perhaps? Why must we come to the biggest and busiest drapers in London?”
“Because, my dear, the more people there are, the less conspicuous you will be,” Aunt Mildred said just before she and Aunt Agnes slipped through the body of the carriage.
They waited for her, hovering in the air outside, as she stepped out of the carriage and paid the driver. Then she took a deep breath and said a silent prayer before following her aunts, who sailed above the heads of the pedestrians and as they made their way to the drapers.
Once inside the shop, Sophie felt her nerves melt away as she eyed the rolls of exquisite fabric. Soft yellows, pastel pinks, deep purples, brilliant blues, and emerald greens vied for her attention. She soon became lost in a world of colors and textures, and time passed in a blur.
Until she heard Aunt Mildred whisper in her ear, “Time to go.”
“Already?” she said aloud without thinking.
A lady nearby gave her a disapproving look and shuffled away from her.
“Hurry!” Aunt Mildred hissed.
Sophie reluctantly left the beautiful fabrics and headed for the door.
When she opened it, her aunts flew out in a white mist. The November air outside was frigid, and the ground was wet from recent rain.
Sophie pulled her lush velvet cloak more tightly around her shoulders, silently thanking her aunts and Miss Waterford.
“Stay back, Sophie,” Aunt Agnes said. “We shall have to hurry. We don’t want to lose her.”
Who? Unable to speak the words out loud for fear of being thought mad, Sophie frowned her question at her aunt.
“Over there. The lady in purple and her servant,” Aunt Mildred said. And then the two of them zipped away.
Sophie could see them hovering over a lady wearing a dark purple cloak with a matching feathered bonnet. Her footman followed behind with a parcel from the drapers tucked under his arm. Oh no! What are they planning now?
Just then, a gust of wind almost blew Sophie off her feet. She grabbed hold of her cloak, which, despite being fastened at the neck, was certain to fly away. Women on the street screamed, and men held onto their hats as the wind assailed them.
Finally, the wind died down, and Sophie was just able to catch her breath when someone cried, “My fabric! Up there! Someone, help!”
Sophie looked up to see the lady pointing at her parcel as it floated in the air.
Just then, Aunt Mildred chose to make herself visible to Sophie, and with the parcel tucked securely under her arm, she waved down at her and winked.
Oh, Aunt, you are terrible!
*
Simon could not believe what he’d just witnessed.
He’d been in his carriage, wondering about how he could find the girl from the cemetery, when she suddenly appeared on the street.
He’d immediately ordered his driver to stop and hopped out of his carriage.
He’d been following her and wondering how to approach her when a great gust of wind almost swept him off his feet.
It only lasted a few seconds before it died down, but it had been strong enough to blow a woman’s parcel clear into the sky.
The whole episode had left Simon stunned.
He’d never experienced anything like it before.
By the time he recovered from the shock, he looked up to see his mystery woman jump into a hansom. He dashed forward, wanting to stop her, but he was too late. Her carriage lurched forward, and she disappeared with it down the street.
Simon stared after the cab and wondered if he’d been hallucinating.
How odd that the young lady he’d just been thinking about had appeared on the street before him.
And could it be a coincidence that yet another mysterious happening had occurred in her presence? Who was she? He simply had to find out.
And there was only one place he could go to get a clue.
*
Racing back to his carriage, Simon gave his driver instructions to go to Highgate Cemetery.
He had other things on his agenda, but he felt this could not wait.
He was eager to know more about this mystery woman who kept appearing at the oddest moments.
There was something about her that he could not shake—something that was drawing him to her.
Despite his determination, he felt somewhat foolish when he arrived at the gates of the cemetery some forty-five minutes later. He was behaving like an infatuated schoolboy, coming from the West End to Highgate in the middle of the day when he had work to which to attend.
Nonetheless, he didn’t want to give up and go home, so he entered the cemetery, intent on revisiting the spot where Miss Waterford had fainted.
Not because he felt any sort of attachment to Miss Waterford, but because some distant and ridiculous hope existed inside of him that she—his mystery woman—would be nearby.
It was a silly endeavor, he knew, but he would justify his trip with a visit to the family crypt afterward.
He tramped through the cemetery, which was littered with soggy fallen leaves.
Now and then, as he waded through the mist, he was confronted with a stone face, and though he hated to admit it, it startled him.
There were so many sculptures in the cemetery that it was no wonder people thought the place was haunted.
He shook off his discomfort and continued, coming soon to the path that led to Sir Walter’s place of burial.
As he approached the grave, he saw something that made him stop in his tracks.
Miss Waterford was lying prostrate on the ground again, sans her cloak and shoes, while a man kneeled beside her.
Only this time, she had not fainted. This time, she was posing for a portrait!
He noticed that her mother stood nearby, admiring the scene.
“What’s going on here?” he said, looking from Miss Waterford to the artist and his easel.
Miss Waterford sat up. “Lord Rodwell, you’re here! You received my message, then?”
“Your message?” Simon said, utterly confused.
“Yes, I sent a message to your home, asking that you meet me at ‘our special place’ in the cemetery. And here you are!”
“I haven’t a clue what you’re—”
“Isn’t it wonderful! Mama commissioned Mr. Bonetti to commemorate our first meeting.” She gestured to the artist.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” The artist eyed Simon like a hungry cat. “A footman has been standing in for you, so you have arrived at the perfect time.”
Simon glanced at the dark-haired man who kneeled beside Miss Waterford.
“He was a good choice.” Mr. Bonetti stroked his chin. “He is about your height with a similar build, but yours is far superior. I shall make the corrections.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, turning back to Miss Waterford. “I fail to understand. Why are you commemorating our first meeting?”
“Because of what Lady Cheshire told Mama.” She smiled coyly.
A dread filled Simon’s stomach. “And what was that?”
“You can stop pretending,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “In fact, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you were to ask for my hand right here in this very spot where you rescued me?”
Simon swallowed. A month ago, this would have seemed like good fortune. Miss Waterford and her family’s fortune were the answer to all his problems.
After all, he’d never expected to marry for love. Marriage, he knew, was a transaction. A chance to increase one’s wealth, power, and prosperity. A way to continue the line and the title with heirs. It was a rational decision, not an emotional one. Yet…
“I’m afraid I cannot stay,” Simon said. “I didn’t get your message and only came to visit my family’s crypt. It’s a mere coincidence I saw you here.”
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Lady Waterford said as she stepped forward, “only what is meant to be.”
Simon nodded in greeting to Lady Waterford and said, “Unfortunately, I have a pressing matter to attend to and must take my leave now.”
“This is not a problem, my lord.” Mr. Bonetti eyed him up and down again. “I have your likeness locked in my memory.”
“Indeed,” Simon said coldly. He disliked the artist’s invasive way of looking at him, and he had not asked for his likeness to be committed to his memory. Then he bowed to the ladies, turned, and strode in the opposite direction.
“Lord Rodwell.” Simon heard Lady Waterford coming up behind him and turned.
The lady took a moment to catch her breath before saying, “As I’m sure you are aware, my daughter has an enormous dowry—enough to save your estate.”
“Excuse me?” Simon could not keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“Your father was a well-known gambler, Lord Rodwell. You owe people money. Nonetheless, you are an earl, and you come from a prestigious family. One that dates back centuries.”
“I’m aware of my family’s history,” Simon said tightly.
“Then you understand what a shame it would be should you lose your family’s estate in Kent, which was a gift to your ancestors from Henry V, I believe. I am certain you don’t want that stain on your conscience. Unless you are more like your father than society thinks.”
“That won’t happen,” Simon said through gritted teeth. “I am nothing like my father.”
“Excellent, then we are in agreement.” She smiled. “Good day, my lord.”
“Good day,” Simon said. He turned and hurried back to his carriage, cursing his decision to return to Highgate Cemetery.