Forever and Ever (19 page)

Was it another dream?

No. It was Sophie.

At first he was too stunned to speak and could only gape at her in the dark doorway. He felt a slow warmth begin to creep into all the cold places, like a man with a chill drawing closer to a blazing fire. He could hardly see her face; she wore a long black cape with a hood, and her eyes were in deep shadow. Her soft, unsmiling mouth unlocked a storehouse of forbidden, carefully unexamined memories. He whispered her name. To have her here—to see her again like this—at once nothing else mattered, nothing but this moment. “Sophie—”

“May I come in?”

Her voice, ice-cold and hostile, dashed all his stupid, fledgling hopes in an instant. His own face froze. He made a facetious gesture of welcome and opened the door wide.

He couldn’t stand her seeing where he lived. He watched her straight back and stiff shoulders, the slow, disdainful turn of her head as she took in the cramped, dark, miserable little room, and he wanted to disappear, or bolt out the door, or kick every piece of furniture to splinters. When she finally turned around to look at him, his hackles were up and he was ready to fight. Nobody put him in this bloody-minded, humiliating place better than Sophie Deene, and in that moment he hated her for it.

***

“I can see this isn’t a social call. What did you come for? Do I owe you money?”

Even in the dim candlelight he could see her turn pale, and he felt a painful pinch in his chest. She never used to be so thin-skinned; for a second he wondered if she was unwell.

If so, she recovered quickly. She glanced around with deliberate distaste, and her lips curled when she answered, “Luckily I didn’t come for the view. You don’t seem to have landed on your feet,
Connor.
It almost looks as if you’ve gotten what you deserve.”

He folded his arms, smiling nastily. “I don’t have time for this,
Miss Deene.
What is it you want?”

She faltered. Her hand fluttered to her throat and hovered there, as if she might unfasten the top button of her cape. Her eyes skittered away. When she turned her head, he couldn’t see her face anymore, because of the hood. “May I have a glass of water?”

“Sorry, I’m fresh out.” He frowned at her motionless profile. “Can you stomach flat ale? I’ve got that in abundance.” He owned two mugs; miraculously, one of them was clean. He poured warm, stale ale into it from a covered stone pitcher he’d gotten filled yesterday at the local public house. To make Sophie look at him, he stood at her elbow, mug in hand, and waited for her to turn.

“Thank you.” She took a minuscule sip without shuddering, then set the mug down on the table. “Writing more tracts?” she asked, eyeing his messy spread of ink-blotched papers. “Or are you really an attorney when you’re not pretending to be a tutman?”

He sat down on the edge of his bed because he knew it was rude. “I’m not a lawyer.” For no reason he could think of, he added, “I was articled to one once, in my careless youth. But he died. And then other circumstances got between me and the rest of my legal education.” She said nothing to that, just stared at him. “How did you find me?”

“Your brother mentioned your address in a letter he wrote to someone . . . someone I know.”

“Who?”

The corners of her mouth flattened. “Sidony Timms.”

He pulled one foot up on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around his knee. So she’d been reduced to questioning Jack’s dairymaid lover to learn his whereabouts. He should have felt some sort of satisfaction at that, but he didn’t. His curiosity intensified. Was she really here with him in his room, unchaperoned, in the dead of night? “Why did you come, Sophie?”

There was a picture on the wall over the washstand, a cheap print, poorly framed, some sort of landscape—he could hardly remember it. But Sophie was examining it as though it were a masterpiece hanging in the Louvre. She couldn’t bring herself to say whatever it was she’d come here to say, and a foolish, battered hope flickered in him again, like a beaten boxer who won’t stay down even though his legs can’t support him. Connor knew the hope was stupid and pitiful, but it wouldn’t die.

“I’ve got an appointment,” he lied after a full minute crawled by in silence. “I have to go out in a little while, so if you could come to the point . . .”

She turned, bracing her palms on the rickety stand behind her. The look on her face shut him up. “I would have done anything not to come here,” she said in a low voice that broke at the end. “All that’s gotten me through the last weeks is thinking I would never see you again. Believe me—”

“Yes, I get the point,” he flared. “Then why did you come?”

Her throat worked. She swallowed, her glance darting from place to place, anywhere but on him. She was in misery, and the cause suddenly struck him like a hammer blow to the back of the head. “I—find that I—” She had to close her eyes to say it. “I’m going to have a child.”

He couldn’t get up. His foot hit the floor with a thud, like an exclamation point to her low, shaky sentence, but otherwise he couldn’t move.

“Well.” She turned her back on him. “I had hoped for something more from you, but I don’t know why. I should know by now that you’re incapable of simple decency, the—”

Finally he got to his feet. His mind was in turmoil. “Are you telling me this,” he said loudly, to cut her off, “because you believe I’m the father?” She hunched her shoulders, and immediately he was ashamed. Why were they hurting each other like this? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Go to hell.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, afraid to go to her but wanting to touch her, or at least see her face. “What are you going to do?”

She turned back, and it was a mixed relief to see that she had herself under control again. “Besides coming here and telling you, do you mean? Beyond that, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Oh, come now. What you want from me is a declaration of devotion and a quick marriage proposal. Am I right?”

“On the second count. But I beg you not to attempt the first under any circumstances. These days I’m nauseated enough, and I don’t think I could bear it.”

His eyes glittered, but Sophie had no idea what he was thinking. He looked strange to her in his gentleman’s clothes, the tools of his profession—pens, papers, books—scattered around his small, untidy room. He wore glasses; she saw them on the table next to his inkstand. His hair had grown long and shaggy in the weeks since she’d seen him last. He looked like an impoverished don holed up in his college, surviving on books and biscuits. Connor, his name was. It suited him.

“Let’s be clear,” he said, moving toward her. “You’re having my child, and you want me to marry you.”

She considered insulting him by saying something scathing about the inaccuracy of the word “want.” But then she reminded herself that nastiness was a luxury she couldn’t afford. If he had wanted to see her humbled, he’d certainly gotten his wish: Lady Bountiful was groveling at his feet. “If I had any other choice, I would take it. I’m under no illusions as to how you feel about me; you made that clear at our last meeting. If it were only myself, I would endure anything before coming to you with this request. But now there’s the child, and it must come first.”

He didn’t speak. If he refused her—she shrank from imagining what would happen next. Perhaps he was already re-encumbered, she thought, remembering the attractive woman who had come out of his downstairs office not long ago. She’d seen her while she’d huddled in a dark doorway across the street, waiting for the courage to knock on his door.

“You needn’t live with me,” she said harshly. “Stay here and continue your important reform efforts—” She stopped, curbing again the impulse to insult him, this time with sarcasm. “I’m asking you for your name, for the sake of this baby. Marry me, then never see me again if it suits you.”

“Does it suit you?”

She let too much time go by before answering, and her tone of voice wasn’t adamant enough. “Yes.”

Again he said nothing, and the silence became unbearable. She had to turn away. “There’s money in it for you,” she said, feeling weary to the bone. “A yearly stipend if you like, monthly if you—”

His ungentle hand jerked her around by the arm to face him. “How much do you hate me? That much, that you think I would take money for this?”

“It wasn’t my intention to offend you. I don’t know anything about you. I’ve learned to take nothing for granted.” His grip loosened; he let her go, and she saw remorse in his eyes. “Will you do it?” she asked while he was in this softer mood.

He watched her for a moment. “I’ll let you know. It’s a big step; I’ll have to think it over,” he said, then smiled at the indignation she couldn’t hide. “Where are you staying?”

She wanted to curse him, spit in his eye. She named the small, discreet hotel in Friars Walk where she’d taken a suite of rooms.

“Friars Walk,” he repeated, pretending he was impressed by the address. “Then you’ll be comfortable while you wait for my answer, won’t you?”

She moved around him toward the door, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. If she stayed here another minute, she was afraid she would strike him.

Her exit took him by surprise. She was already outside on the stair landing when he called to her, “Sophie, wait. I’ll come with you.”

“No, don’t,” she threw over her shoulder, hanging on to the railing as she clattered down the wooden steps in her half boots.

“Wait!”

She was running now. “You know where I am. Send a note, because I don’t want to see you!”

The foggy darkness was her friend; it swallowed her up quickly. She walked back to her hotel with no fear, just gladness because she was alone, and because the encounter she’d been dreading was over. Nothing could get worse now. Surely it couldn’t.

***

The next, day a messenger delivered his letter.

Dear Sophie,

I accept.

I assume discretion is the watchword, but will otherwise leave all of the arrangements to you. Do you desire an
elopement here in Exeter, with the sheepish couple returning to Wycherley after the foul deed is a fait accompli? I’m at your service; only apprise me of your wishes, and I will do my utmost to comply with them.

Yr. obed. svt.
,

Connor Pendarvis.

XV

Christy was reading a book by the light of a candle he’d brought over from the altar and set on the back of his pew. Sophie envied his absorption, and especially his calm. She couldn’t even sit down. Every time she tried, she popped back up after half a minute and started prowling again, trying to walk off her nerves. If the monotonous clack of her footsteps on the worn stone floor of the nave annoyed Reverend Morrell, he never showed it.

She thought he must be the kindest man she’d ever known. Certainly he was the easiest to confide in. She thought of his compassion when she’d confessed to him the trouble she was in, and his gentle counsel, his refusal to moralize or condemn. He’d petitioned the archdeacon to waive the banns so the wedding could take place immediately. He wouldn’t lie and put down in the church registry a false date for the nuptials, but he’d done everything else he could to accommodate her. Such as holding the ceremony at ten o’clock at night. And sending his deacon and his churchwarden away on trumped-up business at opposite ends of the parish, to eliminate the unlikely possibility of interruptions. Just then he looked up from his book and smiled at her, and she smiled back, comforted in spite of herself. They had talked and talked until there was nothing left to say, and now they were waiting. For the bridegroom to show up for his wedding.

She assumed he was coming. He’d never said, never responded to the letter she’d sent to him from Wyckerley telling him the date and time of the “foul deed.” If he didn’t keep his word, if this had all been a lie, if he literally abandoned her at the altar . . . She pivoted and started on another round of pacing.

She didn’t even know what would happen after the wedding. Would he go away immediately? Might this be the last time they ever saw each other—that is, if he came at all? Or would he stay for a little while and then go away, under some pretext they concocted in advance? And how would she explain her baby’s arrival a mere seven and a half months after the wedding? Christy told her not to worry about things she couldn’t control, but that was easier said than done. Anne said anyone who ostracized or gossiped about her could go to hell for all she cared. But that kind of defiance was easier in the abstract, too. Sophie wasn’t like Anne. What people thought of her mattered, and it always had. She’d even been afraid at first to tell Anne the truth, for fear of losing her friendship.

But that had proved a baseless worry. “I could tell you things about myself that would shock you,” Anne had shot back, to console her. “I won’t, because it’s not only my secret. But you can’t alienate me, Sophie, and you can’t make me stop loving you, or wanting you for my friend.”

Was ever a poor, miserable girl in trouble blessed with kinder friends?

She was staring at the dim portrait of one of the Stations of the Cross, so murky in the half light that she couldn’t even tell what it was, when she heard the sound of carriage wheels outside in the street. She whipped around, heart pounding, and saw Christy lift his head from his book. She hadn’t imagined it, then—he’d heard it, too.
Thank God
, she thought reflexively—then wanted to take it back. Christy said the Lord had forgiven her, but she lacked his sanguine faith. She hadn’t been able to pray since she’d found out about the baby.

Footsteps on the stone porch. Christy came to stand beside her in the aisle; she squeezed his hand gratefully, then turned her gaze toward the door.

She could hardly see him at first, just the flash of a pale face and white shirt in the dark vestibule, and for an awful moment she feared he’d sent someone else, a proxy. But it was Connor, walking neither fast nor slow down the aisle toward her, his set face giving away no clue to what he was feeling. When he stopped in front of them, he said, “Sophie,” without touching her, and offered his hand to Christy. The two men shook solemnly, and then Connor said, “Reverend Morrell, may I have a word with you alone before we begin?”

“I was going to suggest it myself,” Christy said mildly. They excused themselves and walked toward the sacristy, leaving Sophie alone.

Her nerves stretched tighter. She couldn’t imagine what they were saying to each other. But she was so relieved that he’d come, she had to sit down. She was shaking, she realized, and thinking the most inane thoughts, such as if her hair looked all right, and if he had noticed her dress.

The men returned. She rose to her feet, thinking Connor looked even more subdued than before. Christy said, “Let me go and get Anne. I’ll only be a moment,” and strode off again toward the sacristy.

To keep a nerve-racking silence at bay, Sophie said quickly, “Anne’s going to be the witness—Christy says we only need one. She’s with Elizabeth now, her little girl. She has a cold, Elizabeth, I mean, so Anne’s staying with her. Otherwise—” She took a deep breath. “Otherwise she’d have been here before. Anne, I mean. Waiting with me.”
No
, she realized,
silence is better
, and resolutely closed her lips.

“You look beautiful.”

She felt an inward jolt, and then a foolish blush stealing into her cheeks. “Thank you.” She smoothed the skirt of her simple green gown with self-conscious hands, not looking at him. “How was your trip?”

“I took the train to Plymouth and then hired a carriage. I drove myself.”

“I see.”

“Have you been all right, Sophie? I never asked you, that night in Exeter.”

She assumed he meant her physical health, the state of her pregnancy. “Yes, yes, I’ve been in perfect health.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

She stole a glance at him. He had his hands in his pockets, although he looked anything but relaxed. His dark suit looked cheap but brand-new. He’d had his hair cut. For some reason that moved her. She heard herself blurt out, “Thank you for coming.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you would—but—”

“But you worried anyway.”

“It seems to be what I do best lately.”

They almost smiled at each other.

“I’d have come sooner if I’d thought you needed me. To face anything, I mean. Has it been—difficult for you, has anyone—”

“No, no,” she assured him, “there’s been nothing to face. No one knows, so . . .” She trailed off, then added, “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence.

“What did you say to Christy?” she asked, to break it. “Unless it’s private. Excuse me, you needn’t—”

“No, it’s not private. I apologized to him for what the piece in the Rhadamanthus report said about him. I didn’t write it.” He combed his fingers through his hair, a gesture of uncertainty she’d grown much too fond of. “No, I did write it, but someone else added the implication that he wasn’t a caring minister. I told him I’d never intended that. He accepted my apology.”

Of course. He would.

“Do you know what he had to say to me?”

She returned his gaze levelly. “I can guess.”

“You probably can. It was a manly conversation about honor and duty, and my intentions toward my betrothed. He let me off quite easily, all things considered.”

She couldn’t tell which one of them he was mocking, himself or her, or Christy. Before she could think of a reply, the Morrells trooped into the church, all of them, Elizabeth sprawled asleep on her mother’s shoulder. Anne walked purposefully, without hesitation, to where Sophie and Connor were standing, and planted herself in front of the groom.

“We’ve never formally met,” she announced in soft but carrying tones. “I’m Anne Morrell. Christy’s my husband. And Sophie is my friend.”

As gauntlet-throwing went, it wasn’t particularly subtle. Connor disarmed her by putting out his hand, and Anne had no choice but to take it. “No, we’ve never met. But I made your daughter’s acquaintance the first day I came to Wyckerley. I didn’t know who was prettier, Elizabeth or Sophie. I still haven’t made up my mind.”

“Hmpf,” said Anne, but he’d taken a lot of the fight out of her. “You’re worse than Sophie warned me you would be.”

“Much worse,” he agreed.

She shook her head at him, and sent Sophie a complicated look, humorous and anxious, full of feminine resignation over the shortcomings of men.

Christy had finished lighting more candles on the altar; now he cleared his throat softly, signaling it was time to begin. As they drifted toward him, Sophie reflected on the difference between this ceremony and the one in her girlish daydream, the one in which All Saints Church was filled with friends and flowers, and sunshine, and she was clinging to her father’s arm and smiling, the envy of everyone, as she walked slowly toward her faceless Galahad. This silent, furtive service in the dead of night certainly put proud Miss Sophie Deene in her place. The only thing she was thankful for was that her father wasn’t here to see it.

Connor stood at her right, Anne at her left, gently bouncing Lizzy, who had begun to whimper. Christy’s low, stirring voice sent a little thrill of excitement or apprehension through Sophie’s breast, and her heart gave a violent leap. “We have come together in the presence of God,” he began, “to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony.” She hazarded a glance at Connor. He looked stonefaced and calm—but when he touched her, took her hand to pledge to her his troth, she realized he was trembling, too. It put a different light on things. For the first time she tried to put herself in his place. With Christy’s soft promptings, he made his vows to her. “In the name of God, I, Connor, take you, Sophie, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part. This is my solemn vow.”

There was no ring. Before she knew it, Christy was pronouncing them husband and wife, thoughtfully omitting the “You may kiss the bride” directive, and the wedding was over. They signed the registry right there in the chancel, and afterward Anne asked if they would like to come to the rectory for wine and cake. Sophie hesitated. When Connor said nothing, she declined, with the vague excuse that it was late, they were all tired—but the truth was, she had no idea what would happen next. Would Connor go back to Exeter tonight? Tomorrow? Would he come home with her and be her husband? It was mortifying not to know; she would go to any lengths to avoid saying out loud to Anne—Christy already knew—that she had no idea what her husband’s plans were with regard to herself.

So they said good night with hugs and handshakes, and in Anne’s case, surreptitious tears. Connor took Sophie’s arm, and they went outside to the front of the church, where there was no crowd gathered to wish them well, or throw rice, or catch Sophie’s bouquet. The night was misty and damp and absolutely still. A moment passed, and then she noticed the small, one-horse cabriolet Connor had hired, tied to a post at the edge of the green. Next to her own pony gig. Ha, she thought, without humor. Would they ride off in separate directions now, never to meet again?

Connor was frowning at the two conveyances. “Wait here a moment.” He let go of her arm, trotted down the steps, and jogged around the corner of the church out of sight.

She waited.

Two minutes later he returned, slightly out of breath, and waited for her to come to him at the bottom of the steps. “Christy’s offered to stall your pony overnight,” he explained as he handed her up into his carriage and lifted the hooded top. “I said I’d come and get him for you in the morning.”

Well, she thought. At least he was seeing her home.

The ride to Stone House was accomplished in silence after their first few attempts at casual conversation fell embarrassingly flat. She imagined his stilted observations about the weather and the condition of the road sounded as ludicrous to him as hers did to her, and before long they both lapsed into muteness.

At home, he stabled the hackney while she went inside and tried to think of what she ought to do now. It was after eleven o’clock; she’d told Mrs. Bolton not to wait up for her. The housekeeper had learned not to ask questions; if Sophie’s absences from home alarmed or puzzled her, she didn’t show it.

Now what, she wondered. Should she offer her husband a drink? Or food; maybe he was hungry. She rarely kept spirits, but there was some wine in the pantry. She brought it into the formal parlor and was pouring out a glass when she heard his footsteps on the porch. She wondered if he would knock at the door. No, he was coming in, walking through the hall as if he lived here. She composed herself; by the time he saw her through the archway and came toward her, she had her face in order.

“Aren’t you having any?” he asked when she handed him the wineglass.

She shook her head. “The baby—I thought it might not be good for him. Her. Whatever.” So much for her composure. She walked to the mantel and lit candles, fidgeted with the clock. In the mirror, she could see him watching her. At last she turned around and asked straight out, “What do you intend to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you staying the night?”

He looked blank. “Staying the night?”

“I don’t know what you mean to do,” she admitted, clutching her hands together, trying not to wring them. “About—anything. Is this a marriage? Are you staying? Going away?” She drew a breath. “Please don’t let’s quarrel tonight, Connor.” It was the first time she’d called him, without sarcasm, by his name; she said it self-consciously. “My housekeeper sleeps downstairs. I’d like to keep our difficulties between us, if that’s possible.”

He set his glass down carefully on the low table. “I wouldn’t care for a fight tonight myself. You want to know my intentions. I’m surprised you didn’t see my case in the back of the carriage. I thought I’d send for the rest later. Not that there’s that much to send for.”

“Later? Then, you’re staying? With me?”

“If it suits you. I think that’s the conventional way most marriages begin.”

She had to look away. Her emotions were in complete chaos these days—because of the baby, she supposed. All of a sudden she was weeping, and she didn’t even know why. She heard him behind her, felt his hands lightly touch her shoulders.