The Arrangement (40 page)

“No,” she said. “Aunt Martha was afraid people would remember Papa and how he came to his end.”

“Ah,” he said. “The fault is mine. But it is too easy to beg your pardon.”

They had resumed walking and were drawing near the summerhouse.

“If people cannot beg pardon of one another,” she said, “then nothing can be forgiven and wounds fester.”

“Have you been deeply wounded, Sophia?” he asked her. “Have
I
wounded you?”

“Yes.”

She heard him draw a slow breath and release it.

She was glad he did not choose to enter the summerhouse. He turned, and they strolled slowly back along the alley.

“And now,” he said, “it is too late for me to do anything to really help you. You do not need my help. You have Darleigh.”

“And his mother and grandmother and three sisters and their families,” she said. “I have no one of my own, Uncle Terrence. Only Aunt Martha and Sir Clarence and Henrietta, with whom I hope for a cordial relationship though it will never be a warm one. And perhaps you.”

“Your family has let you down abominably,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better for you to turn your back on the lot of us, Sophia.”

“As you and Papa did with each other?” she said. “As both of you seem to have done with your sisters? Families ought not to be like that. All I want is a family to love and a family to love me. My
own
family. Is it too much to ask?”

“I do not have much experience at warmth,” he said.

“Can you try?” she asked him. “You said your greatest pain was the loss of your children. You have a niece. I can be no substitute for your own sons and daughters, but I crave your love. And I long to love you.”

She swallowed and heard an embarrassing gurgle in her throat.

He stopped walking again and turned to her.

“Sophia,” he said. “I do not believe I have ever known anyone as lovable as you. Perhaps my own children … But they are not here and never will be. I am not good at hugs.”

“I am,” she told him, and she put herself into his arms and wrapped her own about his waist and rested one side of her face against his shoulder.

His arms came tight about her, and they stood motionless for a long time before releasing each other.

“Forgive me?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And let me be a part of your present and your future?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love him, Sophia?” he asked. “Can you console me by telling me that it is a
really
good marriage?”

“Both,” she said.

It
was
really good. They would remain together because of their child, perhaps in time because of their
children
. But it would not be just their children holding them together. Oh, she
would not
believe that. They would be a family. They would love one another as families ought. And she and Vincent would show their children the example of love and companionship and tolerance.

“Darleigh is a
very
fortunate man,” he said.

She smiled and took his arm.

“We will miss tea if we do not return soon,” she told him.

V
incent edged out of bed very carefully. Sophia had only just fallen back to sleep. She had been awake since half past three, she had told him when he awoke just before six—she had looked at the clock to see what time it was. She had apologized if it was her restlessness that had disturbed him.

“Terrified?” he had asked her.

“
At least
that,” she had said with something of a groan. “And excited. And … terrified.”

The reception and ball were to take place in two days’ time. As far as Vincent could tell, everything had been planned to death and organized down to the finest little detail. His sisters and their families were to arrive sometime later today, as was Flavian. Neighbors from ten miles about had been invited, some few to stay overnight on account of the distance. Of all the invitations that had been sent out, just one had been declined, and that only because the recipient had had the misfortune to fall off the roof of his barn when his wife had hullooed and waved the card from down below and distracted him. He had broken his leg in two places, poor man.

According to Andy Harrison and a few of the other men with whom Vincent had become friendly lately, there was going to be an eerie silence in the neighborhood after the Middlebury ball. There would be nothing, absolutely nothing, left to talk about. They had all enjoyed a merry guffaw at the prospect.

Vincent had hugged and kissed his wife and assured her that all would be well, that nothing would go wrong. Of course the orchestra would arrive from Gloucester. And of course all the food would be cooked on time and to perfection.
Of course
everyone would come. And of course it was appropriate and desirable that she lead off the opening set with her uncle. And she would
not
forget the steps or trip over her own feet or anyone else’s. Miss Debbins had gone over the steps with her, and she had practiced in the music room with her uncle, an experienced and expert dancer, had she not? Of course he was not sorry she had put him through all this.

“What do you mean, anyway, Sophie,” he had asked, “by saying
you
have put
me
through it all? Was it not
we
who decided it was time the tradition of grand entertainments in the state apartments was revived? Was it not
we
who decided upon the ball?”

“It is very kind of you to say so,” she had said, her voice muffled against his chest. “But I fear it was me. I wanted to prove myself capable of being mistress of Middlebury. I wanted to show everyone that I could compete with all the viscountesses back through history.”

“And you have done it admirably well,” he assured her, kissing the lengthening curls on her head. “Or you are about to do it.”

“That is the whole problem, though,” she had said. “That
about to do it
part. Do go back to sleep, Vincent. I did not mean to wake you. I shall lie very still, though I doubt I will sleep a wink until after the next few days.”

No more than three minutes later she was sleeping, and Vincent slipped out of bed and made his way to his dressing room. He heard Shep scramble to his feet and come to nudge his hand with a cold nose. He rubbed the dog’s head and pulled gently on his ears.

“Good morning, old boy,” he whispered, bending his head for the customary lick on the cheek. “Just a quick walk outside for you, and then I have an appointment to keep.”

Actually he had lain awake quite a bit of last night too, but earlier than Sophia. Was he going to make a complete ass of himself? He had practiced with Martin for the last few mornings, and Martin had sworn the air blue, if only figuratively speaking.

“I don’t know quite how you do it, sir,” he had grumbled, “but you do, and I don’t like it one little bit on my own account. I like it a whole lot on that smiling bastard’s account, though. Spars with Gentleman Jackson himself, does he? I hope he was not merely boasting when he told you that. It would mean he has farther to fall.”

It would also mean, if he had not been boasting, he would be a formidable opponent. And it was that fact that had kept Vincent awake, his stomach churning uncomfortably. Not that he feared getting hurt. He had grown up half wild. He had been knocked down in fistfights almost as often as he had done the knocking. He had always jumped back up and kept on swinging. No, this time it was the fear of being left feeling inadequate, of failing to accomplish what he had set his heart upon doing.

It was the fear that his blindness had unmanned him.

Pointless thoughts! But nighttime mind wanderings were the hardest to suppress.

Martin was already in the cellar when Vincent arrived there.

“You are sure about this, sir?” he asked. “I would gladly do it for you in the traditional way. I’ll have him on his back watching stars through the cellar ceiling and all the ceilings above it in no time flat.”

“Gentleman Jackson notwithstanding?” Vincent asked.

His valet said something unrepeatable.

“You do not have faith in me, Martin?”

“All the faith in the world,” Martin told him. “But I don’t know why you should have all the fun just because you are a bleeding viscount.”

“And because the viscountess is my wife,” Vincent said.

“Ah. There is that too,” Martin conceded. “If it was Sal, no fists would do but my own.”

Vincent grinned and would have said something about the continuing courtship between his valet and the blacksmith’s daughter, who had still been holding out for a wedding the last time they spoke of her. But the cellar door opened above them, and a cheerful voice called down.

“Darleigh? Are you down there? And is your batman there?”

“Both of us,” Vincent called back. “Come on down, Maycock. There should be plenty of light. Martin has lit the lamps.”

“Ah, a wonderful cavern,” Sebastian Maycock said, his voice closer. “This is where you do your exercising, Darleigh? And this is your trainer?”

“Martin Fisk,” Vincent said. “Friend, batman, valet, trainer. He wears a number of hats.”

“You look impressively large,” Maycock said. “Those shoulder and arm muscles look as if they are kept in good condition.”

“I do my best,” Martin told him.

“So you think you can outspar me, do you?” Maycock laughed. “It takes skill as well as brawn. Did you know that?”

“I think I may have heard it mentioned a time or two,” Martin said.

“Right,” Maycock said. “You are stripped to the waist and ready, I see. I’ll get my shirt and boots off, and we will go at it. Darleigh warned you to bring smelling salts and bandages, did he?”

“He did mention it,” Martin said.

“A bout with no set rounds, then?” Vincent said. “A fair fight with fists only, no punches below the waist? To end when one gives in or is knocked down and unable to get up again within a reasonable amount of time?”

“That sounds fair to me,” Maycock said. “I don’t expect this to take long. I hope your cook serves breakfast early, Darleigh. There is nothing like a good sparring bout to whet the appetite. Try not to go down too soon, Fisk. Ready?”

“I am ready,” Martin said. “There. I have gathered the lanterns together.”

“Oh, spread them around again,” Maycock told him. “There are too many shadows with all three of them in the same place like that. We will be careful to avoid tipping them. Darleigh, old chap, I would advise you to sit partway up the stairs. We would not want to hit you by accident, would we? It would not be sporting.”

He laughed. The man did a lot of laughing.

“I think there is one detail you misunderstand,” Vincent said. “It is not Martin who is to be your sparring partner, Maycock. It is I.”

There was a short silence and then the laughter came again, uproarious this time.

“That is a good one, Darleigh,” he said. “There would be a massacre here in one second flat. Right. Shall we get to it, Fisk? Spread out the lamps. It is dark down here.”

“It is about to get darker,” Vincent told him. “I apparently did not explain myself clearly. It is you and I who are to spar, Maycock. Clearly a fight between us would be ludicrous under normal conditions. You can see. I cannot. The light cannot be turned on in my eyes for the next little while, unfortunately, but it
can
be turned off in yours. And so we will be evenly matched and it will be a fair fight. I say
fight
rather than mere sparring bout for a reason. When you tell a grieving, vulnerable fifteen-year-old that she is ugly, Maycock, and when you force her to see for herself in a full-length mirror, you do more than hurt her. You destroy her. When you do it to the girl who has since become my wife, then you make an enemy of me and are deserving of punishment at my hands.”

“Oh, I say.” Maycock laughed again. “That was years ago, old chap, and it was nothing more than the truth. Would you have had me
lie
to her? Would you have had me tell her—Oh, I say!”

“The lamps are out, sir,” Martin reported. “Three paces forward, slightly right.”

“It is as black as sin down here,” Maycock said, his voice outraged. “Light them again this instant, man.”

“I would advise you to defend yourself,” Vincent said, having moved forward three paces slightly to his right—the only outside help he would get. He used both fists and short jabs to locate his man, and then hooked a right to his chin.

“Oh, I say! This is not sporting.”

“Are your hands tied?” Vincent asked. “Are your legs chained? Are your ears stopped?”

He jabbed at the naked chest before him, hooked with a left, cut upward with a right.

To his credit, Maycock recovered himself and raised his fists to protect himself. He danced about on his feet—and he danced away out of range. Vincent’s free punches were at an end.

But of course, it was not really a fair fight. Vincent was experienced in the dark. He was experienced at using his ears and at using that sixth sense that told him when someone or something was close. Mostly it was sound—the slap of bare feet on the floor, breathing that became more labored. And, as often as not, a voice that protested or taunted, especially when Maycock landed a punch, which he did more than once, though nothing to really hurt. Nothing on the face. Vincent talked too. It was only fair.