Chapter 17 Friends
Simon had encountered many disappointments in his life.
His father’s rejection of him at the age of fifteen was perhaps the largest of them, but even then he had had a place to go and a future to hope for.
Even his repeated failures as an architect had never quite depressed his indomitable spirit.
There was always another possible client, another house to design, another opportunity.
He had Juliet’s unflagging support, a house to live in and his own optimism to drive him forward.
Sophie’s rejection was of another category altogether.
At first, there was no time to think about it, for Juliet collapsed, wailing, and there was all the worry of that, and women thronging his room with vinaigrettes and burnt feathers, and the apothecary to be sent for, with the result that he missed dinner altogether and had to ask Robert to bring him something on a tray.
Then Robert handed him The Book. That was how he came to think of it, later, with capital letters, and probably underlined three times.
At the time, it seemed just a footnote at the end of a difficult day, a day that had started with the abscondment of Lord Daniel Torbuck, had segued into that glorious interlude in the chapel gallery, the surprisingly positive interview with Richard Merrington and then the calamitous encounter with Sophie.
His thoughts had been so despairing that he could not but think his life was over. He did not care about being destitute — while he had his health he could always find employment of some sort, after all. He might even be able to care for Juliet, as she had cared for him all these years.
But he could not face a future without his Sophie.
After sternly repressing any thought of marrying her for weeks, having the possibility dangled enticingly before him rendered her loss too bitter even for his usually buoyant spirits.
How could he possibly survive without her now?
It was too dismal a future to be contemplated.
Then Robert had brought his tray up, and as he left, he had bent down to pick something up near the door.
“Here’s a book you dropped, sir. Got a bit crumpled where it fell. Oh, there’s a letter too. Put it over here for you, shall I?”
A book? His own books were neatly piled up on the table where he worked.
He crossed the room to the small side table near the fire where the book lay, and picked it up.
‘A Collection of Designs for Cottages, Both Modern and Healthy, Suitable for the Accommodation of Labourers and their Families, With Complete Estimates of Materials’, the cover stated. ‘By A Gentleman’.
Several pages had become bent where the book had fallen.
Carefully, he straightened them out, then began leafing through them.
Cottages, a multitude of cottages. He could not help smiling, thinking of Richard’s comment that cottages were all he was good for.
‘ Labourers’ cottages, with two parlours and a kitchen below, and two bedrooms above.
’ Page after page was filled with just such designs.
On the side table, where it had been hidden by the book, he now saw the letter that Robert had mentioned. Was it—? Oh! It was to him — from Sophie!
‘Simon, This is a book of designs that Richard drew. It was published three years ago, and there have already been two further editions, and now he has been commissioned for a second volume, of stables and such like. He was paid ￡100 for the first one, ￡200 each for the second and third, and royalties of ￡150 so far. They sell very well, and they are not such beautiful designs as yours. If you were to write to the publisher, he might commission you for a book of country house designs or town houses. That would be a good way of getting your name known, and earning some money, too. Your affectionate Sophia.’
He smiled. Your affectionate Sophia.’ Whatever happened in the future, however lonely and miserable his life might become, he had those words to warm him and remind him that once, just once in his sorry existence, someone had liked him well enough to want to marry him, however briefly.
At once he sat down to pen a letter to the publisher.
For a moment, he agonised over whether to use his real name or to hide behind the label ‘A Gentleman’, but the question was speedily settled.
Richard Merrington, a gentleman of means and the heir to a dukedom, might choose to conceal his identity, but Simon need have no such qualms. He owed no duty of discretion to his family, and his purpose of making his name as an architect would hardly be served by anonymity.
So he signed himself ‘Simon Payne of Edlesborough’, which had the virtue of being entirely true.
The publisher would no doubt be astute enough to remember the Earl of Edlesborough, and look him up in the Peerage to assure himself that Simon was legitimate.
But he did not want the fellow writing to Edlesborough, so he put his London address on the letter, and added, ‘Currently residing at the Duke of Brinshire’s seat, Staineybank, Brinshire. ’
That should get the man’s attention!
He then sat down to eat his now cold dinner, washing it down with several glasses of the duke’s excellent claret.
After this, he felt somewhat heartened, and consoled himself with the thought that at least he had the possibility to make amends with Sophie while he remained at Staineybank. There was no need to despair, not yet.
This comforting thought lasted for precisely one hour, when Robert arrived with the news that the duke would like to see him in the library at once.
Unlike the summons from Richard, there was no ‘would be obliged’ or ‘whenever convenient’, but such words from a duke, who could not be gainsaid, would be mere flummery.
Simon went, therefore, with no inkling of trouble, and was surprised to find the duke’s eyebrows at their lowest and most threatening ebb. He was attended by James Hammond and his father, and by Richard, all looking serious.
Before Simon could do more than bow, the duke rounded on him.
“What is this I hear about you seducing a lovely girl like Sophia Merrington into a betrothal, eh? And you with not a penny to your name.”
“I—”
“My cousin, to be deceived by a veritable fortune hunter? It is not good enough, Payne. Not good enough at all.”
“Is it true?” Richard burst out. “That your pursuit was only to do with her fortune? For I was deceived myself, Payne. You made a very convincing case.”
“Of course it is not true!” Simon cried, stung.
“As if I would do such a thing! I never made any secret of my lack of fortune, and I have been studiously avoiding any hint of pursuit of the lady, as it pleases you to describe it, until today, when I came upon her in great distress after Torbuck’s defection.
Even then, I explained to her very carefully that it was impossible that we should marry, however much I might desire it. ”
“Easy words to say,” the duke said, with a snort of derision. “You must think us fools, Payne. You made no move to attach poor Sophia until she had the promise of a dowry of ten thousand pounds, and then as soon as Torbuck is off the scene, there you are, drawing her in with sweet words.”
“And kisses,” Richard said. “She has admitted that there were kisses.”
“Ha! He does not deny that!” the duke said triumphantly.
“Well, I will not have it, Payne, and so I tell you. I cannot abide that kind of low deception against a poor, sweet child who deserves all your respect. And to think I admired these foolish designs of yours. Well, there is no chance I will ever build your grandiose schemes now, so you can forget that. Whatever Richard dreams up, that is what will be built, and you may take yourself and your mendacious sister with you. I want you both gone from this house tomorrow, understand?”
There was no point arguing against such a tirade, so Simon merely bowed again. “It shall be as your grace wishes.”
“Your grace, if I may…” Mr Hammond Senior had a soft voice, but everyone turned to him.
“Lady Juliet is most unwell, and it would be a great risk to her health to force her to leave her bed and undertake the arduous journey back to town, especially in the present inclement weather. Whatever Mr Payne may have done, and however heinous his actions against Miss Sophia may appear, he cannot impose upon her any further, and therefore I see no harm in permitting him and his sister to remain at Staineybank, at least until Lady Juliet is well enough to travel.”
The duke grunted. “Very well. I am not heartless, I hope, and would not ask a sick woman to leave her fireside. However, you had best keep out of my way, Payne. I do not wish to see your face again.”
“As your grace pleases.”
“Now get out of my sight.”
Simon was more than happy to comply.
***
Sophia hardly knew what she felt. Her anger burned like the sun for perhaps an hour, and then, abruptly, fizzled into nothingness, like a bonfire in the rain.
For a brief time — just a few hours, that was all — she had been engaged to be married.
Her whole future life had shifted from the grey lowlands of perpetual spinsterhood, which was all very well but a little dreary, and transformed miraculously to the sunlit uplands of marriage and motherhood and being a person of consequence, to Simon at least, if not to the whole world.
And the worst of it was that she liked him…
she loved him. She had been held in his strong arms and felt utterly content, as she never had before.
Not that she was discontented with her life with Mama and Richard and her sisters, but Simon was special.
Or at least, he had made her feel special, which was almost the same thing.