Chapter 23 #2
She swallowed. The smells of the food surrounding them on buffet tables assaulted her nose, and she fought back a gag.
Please. Please.
Beatrice touched Sophia’s arm. “Sophia?”
Sophia looked at the young woman, focused on her face. Brown eyes, light brown hair, such a kind face. She inhaled carefully and exhaled slowly, willing her heart to relax. “I felt quite faint for a moment. I daresay all the excitement since last night has me quite exhausted.”
Beatrice nodded. “I understand. It was quite awful, was it not? How is little Charlie now?”
Sophia was grateful to have something else to focus on.
“Amala Ayah has not left his side, of course, and Lady Pilkington spent the bulk of her day with him. He does not seem frightened, and has communicated in his quiet way when asked questions. Apparently the girl said nothing to hurt or alarm him; she did wander off a time or two but he stayed on her trail.” Sophia smiled. “He is a smart little fellow.”
Charity nodded. “Most assuredly, the dear. Mama retired early to her bedchamber when she heard Charlie had gone missing. I do believe it worried us all.”
“Do you know who would have done such a thing? Why harm Charlie?” Beatrice asked.
Sophia lifted a shoulder.
Charity’s eyes grew wide. “Perhaps it was a kidnapping for ransom, but Major Stuart and the prince’s men found Charlie before the demands could be made.”
Beatrice looked flatly at Sophia. “She has been reading lurid novels just arrived from England.”
Sophia laughed. “Ah, Charity, I should hate to think of a world where you are different than you are right now.”
Charity smiled at Sophia and shot a scowl at Beatrice.
The girl’s attention shifted to the entry arch and her face lost all traces of humor.
Taj Darzi had arrived with some of his attendants, and Lord and Lady Pilkington welcomed them with all due aplomb.
Beatrice’s breath quickened, the color in her cheeks heightening becomingly.
“Why must he show his face everywhere we are?” Charity grumbled.
“Shh.” Sophia linked their arms together. “Beatrice is an intelligent girl and knows what is best for her life.” She glanced at Beatrice, her steady demeanor, and found herself believing it.
Dinner was lavish and formal in its presentation, yet guests were encouraged to select their choices of food and sit at whichever table they chose. “Which is lovely,” Charity told Sophia, “because now we can enjoy one another’s company at a meal other than breakfast!”
“Indeed.” She smiled. Charity’s enthusiasm was infectious, and when she saw Anthony heading toward her, all was very nearly right in her world again.
Lady Seadon the younger, however, was on a collision course with him, and when he realized her intentions, he quickly sat at a table that was full except for one seat.
He had placed himself neatly between Clergyman Denney and Professor Gerald, who spoke to a blushing, smiling Rachael Scarsdale.
Blushing and smiling? Sophia was happy for Rachael, who had mentioned earlier that she would welcome the gentleman’s suit, should he declare it.
A splash of color on Anthony’s black suit coat caught Sophia’s eye, and her breath stilled in her throat.
She felt the burn of tears forming behind her eyes, and she blinked them back.
He had placed flowers in his lapel. At home, before he’d left, he would place flowers of different kinds and colors in his lapel so that she would know he was thinking of her even when she was swamped by suitors and grasping debutantes anxious to ride along on her coattails.
It had become a game; he would wear a flower, and when she returned home, she would look in her reference book, Le Language de Fleursand, to translate the meaning.
Before long, she’d memorized entire pages.
Tonight he’d pulled flowers from the cracks in the ruins. The types of flowers were likely all wrong, but the colors were clear enough. Lavender for devotion, and blood-red orange for I love you. The colors were vibrant, and under the light of the full moon, she saw his messages clearly.
He held her gaze and put his hand to his heart. As his fingertips brushed against the lapel, the small boutonniere turned, and she noted a sprig of green. If he intended it as a stand in for mint, as he’d done once before in London, he was communicating warmth of feeling.
Her tears threatened to return. How on earth had she ever believed a word of his fateful letter?
He had been giving her signs indicating his interest in her from nearly the beginning of their association.
She considered the wretched nature of his duty—of what it had demanded of him—and for the first time felt the stab of hurt and dismay he must have experienced, knowing what was expected of him, what he had to do to her.
Even knowing the truth the last few days, she hadn’t examined the issue from his point of view.
She hadn’t considered that he had been as much a victim as she had.
Sophia placed her hand on her heart and smiled. She blinked and a tear fell. She wiped it away with her finger. She would have gone to him, but there were no more seats at his table.
Charity sighed and laid her head playfully on Sophia’s shoulder, oblivious to the silent communication traveling across a crowded space. “I do believe I hear wedding bells for our dear Miss Scarsdale.”
“I do believe I also hear those bells.” Sophia rested her head against Charity’s and matched her sigh, which made Charity giggle. “And the professor is so handsome, is he not?”
Charity fluttered her eyelashes. “Ever so handsome. Come, Sophia, we must retrieve our dinner from the buffet tables.”
Charity pulled her along, and Sophia took another moment to scan the crowd as they walked.
Lissa Seadon had been forced to sit with her mother, cousin, and Lord Braxton, who still made the hair on the back of Sophia’s neck rise.
Sophia looked back at Anthony, who raised a champagne flute in her direction.
His entire regard was focused completely on her, and for a moment it seemed as if there was nobody else in the courtyard.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he took a sip of the drink.
Her heart lifted, and she very nearly sighed for herself.
Charity pulled Sophia over to Beatrice as Taj Darzi approached with the Pilkingtons. The royal cousin bowed, his palms together, thumbs touching his forehead. His attention was clearly aimed at Beatrice, who curtseyed and flushed.
“Mr. Darzi has asked that you join our table, Miss Denney,” Lord Pilkington said. “If you would?”
“Of course, I would be honored.” Beatrice smiled and again Sophia was struck by the gentle transformation it made to the girl’s face. “I would ask that my sister and Miss Elliot join us as well?”
“Most certainly. We would be honored.” Mr. Darzi smiled, the small wrinkles at his eyes crinkling with obvious use.
He was tall next to Beatrice, but Sophia could envision the two fitting together, rather like pieces of a puzzle.
He carried himself well with a quiet confidence, every inch the royal heir.
He complimented Beatrice on her appearance, and she smiled, ducked her head, and thanked him.
Sophia squeezed Charity’s arm and whispered, “My dear, I do believe Beatrice shall be very much cherished, should she accept Mr. Darzi’s suit.”
Charity turned her troubled blue eyes to Sophia. “I so wish we could be certain.”
Sophia smiled. “Does life ever promise guarantees of success?”
Charity frowned, but lifted a shoulder.
“Come along, do,” Lady Pilkington called back as they made their way to a reserved table near the arch.
“Miss Denney,” Sophia said to Beatrice, “would you like your parents to join us at this table?”
Mr. Darzi awaited Beatrice’s response as he held her chair. Beatrice glanced across the courtyard at her father and looked back at Sophia, her eyes widening in a clear plea. “Oh, no, my father is already settled and our mother is at home tonight. She is feeling ill, I am afraid.”
“As you wish, Miss Denney,” Mr. Darzi said and tucked Beatrice into her chair. He sat beside her then, and said, “I do hope your mother’s illness is not a serious one.”
“Nothing some time away from our father wouldn’t cure,” Charity muttered in Sophia’s ear, and then clasped her hand over her mouth.
“Charity,” Sophia whispered, “does your father hurt your mother?” She was grateful for the light conversation that flowed among the other four diners.
Charity shook her head. “Not in the manner you suggest.” She frowned. “But he is not kind to her. And she is not strong. Not as you are, or Miss Rachael.”
Sophia clasped the girl’s fingers. “Or as you are, and Beatrice. The two of you are very strong, and very talented. You must remember this.”
Charity nodded, solemn. “I shall, Miss Sophia.”
Mr. Darzi spoke easily with Lord Pilkington, who was all things lively and conversant. The Resident’s air of command was quite at odds with his behavior from the night before. But perhaps, Sophia mused, she was judging him harshly. His son had been missing, after all.
Sophia made her way through the dinner and observed those around her quietly.
Mr. Darzi spoke of a new dawn, of fresh beginnings, of strong alliances between neighbors and friends.
He offered suggestions for additional activities between the local populace surrounding the palace and the British citizenry.
“I must say,” Mr. Darzi said as the group began eating, “that when I learn of the early days of the Company that began more than a century ago, I wish relations were not so different. The two cultures mixed freely, and they did not seem to suffer from the discord we often see now.”
“Quite right,” Pilkington said and tackled his dinner.
Sophia glanced between him and the heir-presumptive and felt slightly awkward at the stalling of a pleasant exchange.