Sophie's Halloo (9 page)

“What a fetching bonnet!” As the portrait before them pictured a gentleman seated at his desk, Sophie was obliged to look up at Mr. Rollo to find the reason behind his remark. It then became obvious that his eyes had wandered and had located an object of greater interest nearby.

A lady and a gentleman were seated together on an elegant bench in the middle of the room and were comparing comments on a picture placed on the opposite wall. The lady’s bonnet was quite elegant, and Sophie agreed pleasantly before returning to gaze silently at the gentlemen’s portrait before her.

They proceeded through the room slowly, Mr. Rollo occasionally making an instructional remark about a painting, but just as often commenting upon the appearance of, or his acquaintance with, someone in the gallery. The engaged pair followed in their wake, taking perhaps less notice of the splendour on the wall before them. Suddenly, however, Sophie’s attention was claimed by a startled oath coming from Mr. Rollo himself.

“Good Gad!” he exclaimed. “What a shocking daub!” He spoke with an emotion he had not heretofore shown.

They had arrived before a handsome portrait. The subject was a noble duke, well known for the excellence of his hunting pack. He was seated upon a magnificent steed, his red jacket proclaiming his Tory politics. And at his horse’s feet were gathered a number of elegantly drawn hounds.  Sophie turned to Mr. Rollo in some surprise, but before she could ask him what he found so shocking about a picture she would have expected him to find particularly pleasing, a voice spoke over her shoulder.

“Oh, really? I rather like it myself.” Sophie spun around, and Mr. Rollo was obliged to release her arm to discover who had addressed him so impudently, for the voice came clearly between them.

Sir Tony was standing, regarding the painting, his face the perfect picture of self-doubt. He smiled at Mr. Rollo in his open, friendly fashion, then turned to address Sophie.

“Your servant, Miss Corby,” he said, tipping his beaver.

“Good afternoon,” she said, dimpling. Sophie felt herself relaxing immediately in his presence, realizing only then what an effort it had been to hold a conversation with Mr. Rollo.

“An acquaintance of yours, Miss Corby?” that young man now enquired.

Sophie started. “Oh, yes. Pray excuse me, Mr. Rollo. May I make you known to Sir Tony Farnham?’’’’

“Farnham?” said Rollo brightening visibly. He had been about to take exception to the interruption, but could not do so before a connection he was pleased to make.

“Delighted to meet you, sir. I have heard much about your skill with the ribbons and have hoped for such a meeting. I’m told you made the run from Brighton to Newhaven in just under thirty minutes.”

“I’m afraid that report was much exaggerated,” said Tony, politely dismissing the subject. “I never time my own journeys. Are you enjoying the exhibition, Miss Corby?” he asked with a smile.

Sophie started to answer, but Mr. Rollo ignored Tony’s last remark and pursued his own line of thought. “But I understand that Lord Whitpenny was with you and that he clocked your time.”

Tony turned his gaze upon Mr. Rollo; the smile on his face was becoming rather fixed. “Yes, Whitpenny was with me, but I did not ask him to time the journey and have little interest in knowing it. I was merely testing my new team of horses, letting them have their heads, as it were.” He attempted to speak to Sophie again, but was prevented once more by Mr. Rollo’s persistence.

“Oh, no!” said that young man with a hearty laugh.  “Not interested are you? But you managed to have a member of the Four-in-Hand Club along!” He laughed again and gave Tony a slap on the back rather suggestive of complicity.

Tony’s smile became strained, but he declined to respond and instead looked at Sophie expectantly.

“Yes,” she said in answer to his earlier question. “I am enjoying it excessively. I have never seen so many lovely pictures.”

“It is rather impressive, is it not?” said Tony. “How fortunate I was to run into you.” He perceived that Mr. Rollo was about to ask him another question about his coaching reputation, so he cut him off with a reminder about the portrait before them. “I believe I interrupted you, Mr. Rollo, when you were about to explain your objections to this painting. Pray continue.”

Tony’s words recalled to Rollo’s mind the grievous offence of the artist in question, and he turned to it immediately with a frown. “Ah, yes. Shocking! But I do not need to point out its fault to a sporting gentleman like yourself, Sir Tony. Nor to Miss Corby with her practiced eye.”

Sophie, widening her big, brown eyes in surprise, denied any knowledge of the painting’s fault. Tony also answered in the negative, explaining that if the fault lay in the execution of the painting, he could not find it.

Rollo looked at them both with an incredulous expression. It was almost as if he suspected them of trying to gammon him. 

“It’s the hounds!” he exclaimed. “They are all wrong! Surely, you can see that, Miss Corby?” Sophie looked once more at the portrait and again denied it.

Rollo was aghast. “Look at their legs,” he hinted. Sophie and Tony both did so, but their empty expressions gave him no satisfaction. Finally Rollo gave up and made all clear to them. “You surely must see that they are too long. His grace’s pack is all short-legged with well muscled forelegs.”

“Really!” exclaimed Tony, suitably impressed. “I should never have noticed it. Remarkable, don’t you think, Miss Corby?”

Sophie suppressed a laugh. “Most certainly,” she agreed.

Rollo was pleased to have impressed them both on such an important point. “Shocking, isn’t it?” he repeated. “It puzzles me why his grace allowed the thing to be shown.”

“Yes,” Tony nodded. “It is a mystery. But I happen to know his grace, and the picture really is quite good of him. The stirrup leather seems an appropriate length.” Sophie put a hand suddenly over her mouth and coughed.

After a quick glance in her direction, Tony changed the subject. He looked about the room as if searching for someone and then remarked, “Oh, dear me. I seem to have become separated from my friends. They are nowhere in sight.” He avoided Sophie’s suspicious look and turned to Mr. Rollo instead. “Perhaps you would not mind if I joined you temporarily.” He smiled ingenuously.

“Not at all, dear fellow,” said Mr. Rollo sincerely.  “We should be delighted.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tony with a slight bow. He then offered his arm to Sophie. “Miss Corby?” She took it with no more than a dimple betraying her understanding of how Tony had outmanoeuvred Mr. Rollo, and they proceeded to the next picture with Rollo following along behind. Miss Stanfield and Mr. Repton, who had taken no part in the previous conversation, were now trailing by only a few paces.

They caught up with the others and were presented to Sir Tony, who greeted them with his customary courtesy. They then admired the picture, which again was a hunting portrait. In acknowledgement of Rollo’s superior knowledge on the subject, Tony begged him to elucidate it for them. Nothing loath, Rollo complied and was gratified when Tony posed a quantity of questions about the horse’s conformation, the hounds, the weight of the rider, the excellence of the pack and the accuracy of the artist’s rendition. But to Sophie, the questions seemed to be endless, and, as her mind drifted away from the scene before her, she wondered if this was merely Tony’s way of learning about something which newly fascinated him.

Before too long, Mr. Repton was drawn into the conversation, and it became clear that he, too, was a hunting enthusiast. He offered his opinion as freely as did Mr. Rollo, until inevitably they disagreed upon something which had very little to do with the painting at all.

Repton’s father, it seemed, owned a pack of harriers and saw no harm, therefore, in entering hounds to hare before they were entered to fox. Mr. Rollo disagreed and argued strongly that it was an outmoded practice which experience had shown to be wrong. They argued more and more hotly, each keeping a tenuous hold on a veneer of polite disagreement, while Tony, Sophie and Miss Stanfield looked on. The latter young lady was still on her fiancé’s arm and had to listen to the growing argument with no recourse.

But, not so Tony and Sophie. They distanced themselves a bit when Tony stepped back into the crowd, ostensibly to permit another group of viewers to approach the painting, and drew Sophie with him. As they were now no longer a part of the quarrelling group, they were free to pursue their own conversation.

“We seem to be cut off from our friends for the moment, Miss Corby. Perhaps you would take a minute to let me show you a painting that I spotted earlier in the afternoon,” he suggested hopefully.

Sophie wanted to go, but her conscience troubled her. “I would be happy to see it, Sir Tony, but perhaps I should ask the others to come with us. I would not want them to think I was unwilling to wait for them.”  She looked back toward her companions, but the two gentlemen were still hotly debating their point, and even Miss Stanfield had not seemed to notice that Sophie and Tony were no longer with them.

Tony spoke encouragingly. “I should not worry too much over it, Miss Corby. They seem to be perfectly happy at the moment, and I should think that the discussion could go on for a minute or two longer. The painting is just a little ways away.”  He smiled at her, and she felt the irresistible pull of his blue eyes.

“Very well, then.” They stepped across the room to a wall she had not seen and stopped before a rather smallish painting. It was of a young lady, dressed for a country walk, but without a bonnet. She was seated on a rustic stile, a sheaf of papers in her lap, a pen in her hand, and she was gazing off into the distance lost in thought. Sophie looked at the picture for a long moment, while Tony watched her. Then she flushed with pleasure before commenting simply, “I like it.”

“I had hoped you would,” he said. “As soon as I saw it, I thought of you and how you must often go on solitary walks to think and to write. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” she admitted shyly. No one had ever asked about her solitary rambles.

“I knew it,” said Tony quietly. “The artist could have known you.”

“Indeed?” teased Sophie, now amused. “Is it very like?” And thinking of Mr. Rollo’s critical comments, she added, “Perhaps the length of the legs is a bit off.”  Then suddenly, as the impropriety of her words struck her, she reddened and lowered her gaze.

But Tony answered as though an improper meaning had not occurred to him. “Perhaps it is,” he said thoughtfully. Then after a pause, he added seriously, “But I am not yet in a position to be certain.”

And seemingly unaware of her blushes, he began to comment on the pleasant colours in the canvas and the artist’s visible brush stroke, until Sophie remembered the others.

“Sir Tony,” she reminded him, “I think we ought to be returning to my companions. They must have finished their discussion by now and might be searching for me.”

“Let us hope so,” said Tony seriously. “They really ought not to have entered into a disagreement in front of their guests, and I would not be in the least surprised if Mr. Rollo is not regretting his error now.”

“But wasn’t it you, Sir Tony, who brought up the issue of entering fox hounds to hare when Mr. Repton mentioned his father had a pack of harriers?” she reminded him.

“Did I?” asked Tony innocently. “I must have heard the topic discussed before. But,” he cautioned her with a twinkle, “you must remind me never to mention it again.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The fourteenth of April was Sophie’s birthday, and her mother planned to give a small dinner party in her honour. Cards were sent out to a select group of friends among whom were included Sir Tony and Mr. Rollo.

Aunt Sadie, who had spent most of the past month on her property in Kent, planned to return to Town for the birthday party and remain for the rest of the social season. Now that warmer weather could be expected, she would not be plagued by the twinges in her injured back which often curtailed her enjoyment of Town pleasures. Sophie, who had never seen her aunt in the least inhibited by these twinges, still knew that they must be considerable if they kept Sadie from the chase, for only a major discomfort could have done so.

On the evening of the Corbys’ dinner party, Aunt Sadie was the first to arrive by prearrangement. It was with a mixture of curiosity and dread that all the Corbys looked forward to hearing her comments about Sophie’s social successes to date. They were not all agreed, however, on which success was the most promising for her future settlement in life.

After the initial considerable bustle which typically accompanied Aunt Sadie’s entry into any house, they moved to the parlour to await the arrival of their guests. Sophie was dressed in a lovely, sprig-yellow gown. Her mother and she were both agreed that the stark white of the debutante did not become her peach-coloured complexion, but this bright yellow seemed to enhance the glow in her smooth cheeks and the gleam in her brown eyes. Aunt Sadie looked her over with proud approval.

“You are a beauty, Sophie,” she said stoutly. “I always expected you would be. You’re like your mother was at the same age. Of course, you wouldn’t be getting it from the Corbys, for we never produced one with any looks.”

“Come, come now, Sadie,” protested Lady Corby politely. “I am certain that you were a handsome young lady. You never lacked for admirers.”

“Handsome, yes. Beautiful, no, Clarissa.  And there’s the difference,” Sadie answered. “And my ‘admirers’ were no more than hunting companions.  But I wasn’t unhappy, and I know that Mr. Brewster married me more for my ability to beat him in a race than for my face. We suited each other well,” she said, ending with a touch of hoarseness in her voice.

“Of course, you did, my dear,” said Lady Corby, her gentle heart moved. “I never knew a happier marriage.” She hugged Sadie impulsively, but that lady shrugged off her sad reminiscences with an embarrassed laugh.

“Let’s not get started on that, Clarissa, or we shall spoil Sophie’s party. She’s already startled to see her Aunt Sadie lapse into the sentimental.  Never you mind, dear.  I’m not like to weep into my handkerchief and miss talking to all your young men.” She laughed and seemed fully restored to equanimity.