Daughters of the Storm (3 page)

‘Don't poker up, Sophie,' he called out again when she didn't respond. ‘You must leave these decisions to me.'

She glanced back at him.

‘You're wrong to do this,' was all she said.

Ned burst out laughing and spurred his horse. ‘You'll get wrinkles if you frown,' he said infuriatingly. ‘How about a gallop?'

For an answer, Sophie leant over her mare and touched her sides. Her mount leapt forward to the accompanying thud of Ned's horse's hoofs.

‘Faster,' she breathed, ‘faster.'

She flashed past the line of trees to her right, the mare skimming over the turf, her well-trained feet avoiding the rabbit holes. Suddenly it was important to Sophie that she won this race. She gritted her teeth and made a mental calculation as to how far Ned was behind her. If she kept to the middle of the path, which was thickly wooded on either side, he would find it difficult to pass her. Sophie was not averse to using cunning and she edged her horse further into the centre of the track.

‘To the oak tree at the end,' she shouted. ‘I will beat you by a head.'

‘No, you won't, by God.' Ned spurred his horse with a raucous yell.

Sophie concentrated on her mount and the deceptively smooth lie of the ground in front, all other considerations vanishing as she sought to master the rush of air that beat at her cheeks and the powerful stride of the animal beneath the saddle. She swerved past a fallen tree, put up a hand to secure her hat and was nearly unseated.

Her mare, however, did not let her down and, with Sophie using every ounce of skill she possessed, the distance between the two horses lengthened, until at last she reined in, flushed and triumphant, under the tree. Ned thundered up.

‘Well ridden,' he called. ‘I'll say this for you, Sophie, there is none to beat you in the saddle.'

Considerably more in charity with her cousin, and restored to her customary sunny humour, Sophie allowed Ned to lead her blown mare and the long-suffering Bragge along the track and down into a small valley where they wound alongside the stream towards High Mullions.

Once back in the stable yard, Sophie let the reins go slack and waited for Ned to lift her down. As she did so, she saw the figure of Margaret Wainwright slip into the yard to stare at the party, giggling loudly when Ned's reins became tangled in his whip. Sophie liked Margaret, so she gave a friendly wave and slid down into Ned's waiting arms.

‘Goodness, Ned, how flushed you are,' she said.

Sophie often thought of that ride during the months that followed – and caught her breath at the memory of a time when she had been uncomplicated, ignorant, foolish and young.

After an early dinner (the Luttrells kept country hours), she sat with her mother in the drawing room which overlooked the lawn. The long windows trapped every trace of late-afternoon sun and warmed the room. Sophie was drowsy from her ride but made an effort to concentrate on a pile of white work that needed repair. They had dined well and the men were still at the table, occupied by a bottle of port that required attention.

Lady Luttrell had chosen her moment with care.

‘Sophie...'

Her charmingly accented English caught Sophie's ear for the thousandth time. Lady Luttrell would never speak English well, despite having lived in England for nearly twenty years. Nor did she wish to. And since Sir Brinsley spoke excellent French, Lady Luttrell's less than perfect grasp of her adoptive language had posed no bar to a successful marriage.

‘About your cousins in France,
ma chère.
I think we should discuss them a little.'

Sophie flung down her needlework.

‘I am all attention,
Maman.'

‘Naturellement,
you do not know them well, apart from what I have told you. I, too, have lost touch a little, although my sister, your
tante,
Marguerite and I correspond regularly. Perhaps one day, I might... after all...'

Lady Luttrell's voice trailed into silence and Sophie, ever quick to sense her mother's moods, knew she was longing for her country.

‘Tell me more,
Maman,'
she said to divert her.

‘In France, things are ordered differently,' Lady Luttrell continued after a moment. ‘Daughters,
par exemple,
are not free to say and do as they please, as is more the custom over here, a custom that your father and I approve of, and we have always allowed you to speak your mind within reason. But you will have to watch your tongue
un peu
and take care to observe how your cousins, Cécile and Héloïse, behave and try to copy them. I don't want you to feel too restrained, but I want you to be a credit for us.'

‘To us,' Sophie interposed from force of long habit.

Her mother frowned at her. ‘To us,' she repeated with dignity and switched into French. ‘What was I saying? Ah, yes, your aunt Marguerite is strict in her views.'

‘What is she like,
Maman?'
Sophie tossed aside her ill-treated sewing and settled herself more comfortably. Lady Luttrell reflected for a moment.

‘She was the beauty of us two. So beautiful that men would stop and stare openly. I used to be quite jealous of her until I married, and then I knew that I had more than enough to be content.' Lady Luttrell smiled, a tender, disarming smile. ‘The de Guinots', she continued, ‘have many estates, a beautiful house in Paris and the apartments in Versailles. I hope you will visit La Joyeuse, their château near Paris. I thought it a most exquisite place.'

‘But my cousins, what of them?' asked Sophie.

‘I know as much as you do,
chérie.
I have seen them once, that time your aunt brought them to us here.'

Sophie had a distant memory of two rather proper young girls who refused to climb trees. Her chief recollection was one of exasperation.

‘You must remember', said Lady Luttrell gently, ‘that you are an ambassador for our – your – country and what you say or do will reflect on us in a noticeable way.'

‘Yes,
Maman,'
said Sophie, rising in a frou-frou of muslin and going over to the window.

‘Does anything trouble you,
ma fille?'
asked her mother.

Sophie now sat down on the comfortable sofa over which Lady Luttrell had flung some pretty striped calico as a cover. She fingered it restlessly.

‘No... nothing,' she said. ‘But we have been so happy as a family, have we not?'

‘Yes. Yes, we have. We have been blessed.'

Sophie thought for a moment.

‘And I shall marry Ned.'

‘That is our dearest wish.'

Sophie gazed past her mother, the low shafts of the dying sun tipping cheeks flushed with health and exercise. Her grey, thickly lashed eyes opened wide and in their depths lay a troubled expression which alarmed her mother.

‘Sophie. You do wish to marry Ned?'

Sophie shook her head to banish a doubt that had crept, unwanted, into her mind. Why had Margaret Wainwright been at the stables when they came back from their ride? And was she imagining it, or had Ned given Margaret a little nod which she had thought nothing of at the time?

‘Sophie,' repeated her mother. ‘You are happy about Ned?'

Sophie looked at her and tried to think clearly. Was it possible that Ned was conducting an intrigue with Margaret?

‘I wish for nothing more,' she said at last.

‘You are sure?'

She smiled to reassure her mother. ‘Yes,' she said, and meant it.

‘Then, why do you look like that?'

‘I was thinking,' said Sophie slowly, fumbling for some sort of answer. ‘I shall change, shall I not, over a year? I wish to visit France very much, but it won't be the same when I return. I shall be different and I hope it won't spoil our happiness.'

Satisfied that Sophie was only expressing the normal doubts of a young girl about to embark on society, Lady Luttrell caressed Sophie's abundant fair hair.

‘It is in the nature of things,' she said. ‘You must not be afraid.
Reste tranquille, ma fille,
your father and I are quite sure that you will not let us down either in France or when you return.'

Comforted by Lady Luttrell's soothing words, Sophie let her cheek drop on to her mother's hand where it rested for a long moment.

Sophie was so sleepy that she decided to retire early that night and, after bidding her parents good night, she let herself into the hall to collect her candle. Darkness had falled and she stopped by the hall table to light the candle before mounting the stairs to her room. She was attending to the wick, which needed trimming, and was surprised to see the figure of Ned appear at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in his overcoat and gave a start when her candle flared into the gloom.

‘Sophie. I didn't expect...'

‘Are you going out, Ned?' she asked, cupping her hand to steady the flame, hoping that he would stay to talk to her.

‘For a while.'

‘At this hour?'

‘Curiosity did for the cat, dearest Sophie.'

Ned was teasing, but it was clear to Sophie that he did not wish to discuss the subject.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘I didn't mean to pry.'

‘Good,' he said, pulling the cuffs of his coat down over his wrists. ‘You must be tired, puss. You gave me a good ride, you know. Sleep well.'

He patted her hand, set his hat on his head, dropped a kiss on to the top of her hair and swaggered away down the corridor.

A desolate feeling opened in the pit of Sophie's stomach. It was so intense that she was forced to grasp the banister for support until it passed. But as she ascended the stairs, she failed to silence the voice whispering in her head what she knew now to be true. Ned was going to meet Margaret Wainwright.

Once in her room, she set down the candle beside the mirror on her dressing table. The reflection of the flame danced up the silvered glass. Was it mocking her? She peered into the mirror and ran her fingers across her cheek. Surely she was not so ugly? Jealousy was not something Sophie had experienced before, but now it flamed unchecked in her. Ned didn't love her. He preferred a black-haired, brown-skinned, unlettered girl, and it hurt so much she could not bear it.

After a while, the first shock of her discovery receded a little and she was able to sit up and look round the room, surprised to find that nothing had changed. Her innate good sense began to reassert itself. Of course Ned had been diverted, and she could not blame him. She had had so little opportunity to be with him these last six months, so much time had been taken up with lessons and with the business of preparing for France, that he had failed to see that she had grown up. She could hardly blame him for seeking company elsewhere. But they would be together during the journey and in Paris where she could enjoy his undivided attention. From then on things would be different. Sophie took a deep breath. She must be sensible and forgive and forget this incident and never allow it to trouble her again. It would be difficult to do so, but do it she must, and with good grace.

Heartened by her reflections, Sophie undressed. Throwing a shawl over her night-robe, she moved the candle to a table under the window, sat down, unlocked the drawer and drew out a bundle of papers. Then she removed the porcelain cover from the ink-stand to reveal an ink-pot and sand dredger underneath. Her quill was already trimmed and she regarded it thoughtfully before dipping it into the ink.

Normally, this was the time that Sophie loved best. Alone and free from surveillance however affectionate, she could indulge in what had become a necessity. It was something she never talked about, and trusted that nobody would ever discover, because what she wrote was too private and, sometimes, took even her by surprise.

Sophie could not remember when exactly she had begun to write her thoughts down, but hardly a day passed when she did not manage to find time to cover a sheet or so. Sometimes she was content merely to record the day's events, at other times she tried to make sense of feelings that muddied her thoughts and left her puzzled and exhausted. Trying to put them in to order very often proved beyond her powers and she would score out pages in despair when her writing abilities failed to match her ambitions. Sometimes she turned to her small supply of books for inspiration and tuition –
Robinson Crusoe,
and the daring philosophy of Rousseau's
La Nouvelle Héloïse
– but she always returned to her own writing, driven by an urge to express herself better... and even better.

Tonight was different. Drawing the paper towards her, Sophie traced with her pen the words:

On Being a Wife.

To Obey My Husband in All Things...

To...

Ned's image filled her vision. Her pen faltered and she swallowed a treacherous lump in her throat. He was so very dear to her. What did he see in Margaret? What was she missing? She pulled herself together. It did not matter what she felt. Together they would rule over High Mullions and it would be a place where peace and plenty reigned, and the estate would flourish under their dual care.

This time her pen was obedient. Lady Edward Luttrell, Lady Edward Luttrell, Lady Edward Luttrell. Sophie wrote it over and over again, and scrawled a determined black line under each word.

Change was in the air. It had been there for decades, forced underground by the royal police. It had lain, quiescent, but waiting for a signal. Few had dared to acknowledge it – that was to court exile or imprisonment. But now, throughout France, an element had finally forced its way to the surface: a mixture of expectation, frustration and outrage. There it was, a small flame, burning at the bottom of a pyre, fuelled by the hunger and despair of a country organised to favour a few and to forget the rest.

It was unpredictable, and more than a little heady, this feeling, and the newly elected representatives of the Third Estate of the Estates-General – meeting for the first time in a hundred and fifty years – who had made their way to Versailles in May 1789 were not immune to its seduction.