Chapter 15 Abandoned #2
Above the door, he now saw, was a narrow gallery, partly hidden by an intricately carved latticed wooden screen. He could just make out a pale face peering down at him through the gaps.
“Sophia? Wait…”
He flew out of the chapel, up the nearest stairs and onto the landing where the door to the gallery should be. No door. For a moment, he panicked, then realised that what he had thought was a tapestry was merely a curtain, and behind it was—
“Aha!”
Inside, it was gloomy, and her dark gown made her almost invisible on the bench where she sat, were it not for the white, tear-stained face she turned to him.
“Oh, Sophie! My poor darling! I am so sorry.”
Without a single thought in his head except that she was in distress and needed comfort, he sat beside her and scooped her into his arms. She burrowed into his chest, bursting into fresh tears and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Or perhaps it was already broken, which made him so angry at Torbuck’s fickleness that he would cheerfully have throttled the fellow, were he present.
The only outlet he had for his rage was to hug her tightly to him, and rock her gently, murmuring into the top of her head, which was conveniently within reach.
“Hush now, sweetheart, hush. All will be well, have no fear. Sshh, now, my dear. He is not worth so many tears.”
At that, she lifted her head and looked up at him. “Oh no! Indeed, he is not. I do not cry for him, faithless, deceitful rogue that he is.”
Another spasm of crying overtook her and for a while she said nothing more.
When he could bear it no longer, Simon said, “Then what troubles you?”
“I truly thought… when he came all this way to find me… but yet again, a promising man just disappears, and each time, I am a little older, a little more securely on the shelf.”
“You will find a husband one day, Sophie.”
“No!” she cried, sitting up a little straighter. “That is just it, time is running out. You cannot understand, I suppose, being a man, what it is like to have your hopes constantly raised and then dashed, time after time after time.”
“Actually, I believe I can. I have been qualified as an architect for almost ten years now, and any number of potential clients have approached me. They tell me what they want, I make some sketches and then… then they disappear, just like your suitors. My hopes have been raised and dashed, I imagine, at least as often as yours.”
“Oh. Then you do understand. But I will not allow it to be the same. How old are you, Mr Payne?”
“I am thirty years of age.”
“Then you still have many years in front of you to make your name in your profession, whereas I am eight and twenty. I have been out in society for eleven years, I have danced at one hundred and forty-two balls and—”
“Have you?” he said, enchanted with the precision of the number. “One hundred and forty-two? Do you count them as you go along… number seven… number twenty-four… number one hundred and forty-two? That one was the Marshfields ball, I suppose.”
“It was. I keep notes about them in a little book. What I wore, who I danced with, that sort of thing.”
“That is charming! Is it private? Or would a friend be permitted to see it?”
“You? Are you interested in such things?”
He should perhaps have made some bland answer, but the tears staining her cheeks tugged forcefully at his heart and made him recklessly honest. He ran one finger gently down her face to wipe away the traces. “I am interested in everything about you, Sophie.”
“Oh!” She gave a rueful laugh, with a slight shrug of one shoulder. “If only Lord Daniel had been interested in everything about me.”
“He is a fool to walk away from you, but you will find a husband, never fear.”
She shook her head, the little curls on either side of her face bouncing in emphasis. “No. Not at my age. Who would have me now?”
“I would if I could.” It was madness to say such things, but he no longer cared. He wanted her above all to understand that she was a lovely, fascinating woman and by no means without admirers.
“Oh.” She gazed at him wide-eyed, her face troubled. “Why can you not?”
“I have no money,” he said. “No estate, no allowance from my father, no fortune in the funds. Even my profession brings in nothing.”
“But I have money… ten thousand pounds.”
“It is for the man to provide for his wife,” he said. “Your brother would quite rightly send me packing if I were to approach him for your hand.”
“Yet you want to.”
“I should love to!” he cried. “You would make any man a wonderful wife, but for me it is impossible. I only want you to understand that… you are admired… valued…” He stopped, suddenly struggling for words.
His heart wanted to add ‘loved’, but that was a declaration too far.
Even in the throes of this madness of openness, he would not use that word.
“You said something like this once before,” she said reflectively, snuggling against his chest once more. “That there might be people who admired me but could not speak because of disparities of rank or wealth. You meant yourself, I assume.”
He nodded, quite unable to speak. She sighed, but he could not tell, in the confusion of wild emotions swirling inside him, whether it made her happy or sad.
For a while, they sat thus, his arms still tight around her, while her head rested against his waistcoat and one hand crept upwards to his shoulder.
The tears had stopped and she seemed content.
He was content, too. This was where he belonged, with his Sophie snuggled trustingly against him.
If he could never be more to her than a friend to comfort her distress, that would be enough for him.
After a while, with another sigh, she lifted her face to gaze up at him. “This is so pleasant, is it not?”
“It is, yes. Very pleasant. Do you feel better now, Sophie?”
“Much better, thank you. Why do you call me Sophie?”
“I beg your pardon. That was forward of me, Miss Merrington.”
“No, no, I do not mind! But why Sophie, rather than Sophia?”
“I have no idea. It just… felt right. I cannot explain it.”
“It does feel right! Mama and Papa used to do that — have different names for each other. She used to call him Roly, and he called her Aggy, or Aggy-dear, if he were feeling very affectionate, such as when she had ordered a veal kidney pie for dinner. Papa loved a veal kidney pie. I like that you have a special name for me, too. But what may I call you? There is nothing one can do with Simon, is there?”
“My second name is Harold.”
“Oh, that has possibilities! Harry… or Hal! Yes, I think you are a Hal. But only when we are alone.”
His conscience began to prickle at this innocent remark. “I am not sure we should be alone, Sophie. Today is somewhat unusual, but it is not at all proper.”
She smiled up at him — such a warm and utterly beguiling smile that he melted instantly. “I believe it is quite proper, under the circumstances.”
With trepidation, he had to ask the obvious question. “What circumstances are those?”
“That we are as good as engaged… Hal.”
“Sophie—”
“You said you wanted to marry me, which is as good as an offer, is it not?”
“Sophie, I do not think—”
“Do you remember sitting with me in the gallery at Marshfields, when you nearly kissed me? I can see that you do. Have you not sometimes wished that we had not been interrupted?”
Simon knew exactly what he should do. He should release her and leave the chapel gallery at once, for to stay would be quite fatal. If he once kissed her, he would be lost, utterly lost and…
He should leave…
He should definitely leave…
He should leave at once…
And yet he could not. Slowly, oh so slowly, she lifted her face towards him and he bent down to reach her.
Then there was only magical warmth and sweetness of such intensity that he almost cried out in joy. Her lips were soft and gentle and yielding, yet they bound him to her with unbreakable iron bonds, and he was lost.