Pamela Sherwood (17 page)

Amy pulled a face. “She calls me Amelia.”

“
I
call you Amelia,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but in an entirely different tone, which I don’t mind at all. When your cousin does it, I feel like a schoolgirl being scolded by my governess. In any event,” she added, “I am grateful to be spared Lady Charlotte’s company until tomorrow night’s soiree. Talking of which, Sophie, shall we discuss your programme further, over luncheon?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Sophie replied, accepting Thomas’s proffered arm.

***

Luncheon was delicious, a selection of exquisitely prepared hot and cold dishes that made Sophie understand why her hostess was so envied and her chef so assiduously courted. A creamy tomato bisque was followed by poached salmon with chilled asparagus, chicken in béchamel sauce, and a salad of tender greens. Sophie, who’d eaten little at breakfast, found herself famished and did full justice to the meal, though she took care not to overindulge.

The conversation was as good as the food. Although Amy was strictly an amateur performer, she had a deep appreciation of music and a good instinct regarding what was most likely to please her guests. By the time the dessert course of peach galette and lemon ice had been brought, Sophie had selected most of the songs that would be on her programme, not only the classical compositions for which she was best known, but some lighter, popular works that would be familiar to the audience—including a smattering of Gilbert and Sullivan.

Afterward, the Sheridans led her to the music room, an airy salon furnished in white and ice blue that would look and feel cool on even the muggiest summer night. On a low dais stood an Érard grand piano. Amy seated herself at the instrument—she could play a bit, though not as well as her sister Aurelia—and provided an accompaniment to the simple folk song Sophie performed to test the sound capabilities of the room. Sheridan sat in the front row of chairs where the audience would be seated the following evening and offered a few suggestions of his own.

It was close to four o’clock when they returned to the drawing room. While they were all enjoying a restorative cup of tea, Isabella Beatrice Sheridan, aged nine months, was brought down by her nurse to be properly introduced and admired. Much to Sophie’s amusement and delight, both parents immediately set their tea aside to dote upon their daughter. Like her mother, she was fair, with pale gold down crowning her head, but her eyes were the same brilliant green as her father’s. Best of all, she appeared to have been blessed with a sunny disposition, gurgling and cooing at all and sundry while waving a tiny fist in either greeting or emphasis.

Amy kissed the top of Bella’s head as she dandled the baby on her lap. “I was afraid Thomas would be disappointed at first, because I did not have a boy, but he absolutely dotes on Bella. He’s got a sketchbook full of drawings of her alone.”

“It pains me to contradict you, my love, but it’s actually
two
sketchbooks.” Sheridan leaned over the back of the sofa to stroke Bella’s downy hair. “Or it will be soon enough, once I add more drawings of her in the bath.”

Amy giggled. “Take care she doesn’t drench the pages the way she did last time!”

“I underestimated the range and magnitude of her splashing ability,” Sheridan explained with a crooked smile. “Not to mention her enthusiasm for making as large a mess as possible.”

Sophie laughed. “Perhaps she has a natural affinity for water? You should bring her to Cornwall sometime.”

The Sheridans exchanged a glance. “As a matter-of-fact, we’re planning to do just that later this summer,” Amy replied. “Relia’s very eager to have us visit, and I want Bella to spend time with her cousins. Alexandra is just a few months younger than she, and I’m determined for them to be great friends. Jared too.”

“And nothing stands in the way of Amelia’s determination,” Sheridan remarked fondly.

“Which should come as no surprise to you after five years,” she retorted.

“No surprise, but a constant source of entertainment. We’ll be heading off to Cornwall in August, as soon as the Season ends,” he added to Sophie.

“I thought everyone in Society raced off to shoot grouse on the Glorious Twelfth.”

“Not everyone,” Amy corrected. “We’ve had our share of invitations, but Thomas would rather paint grouse than shoot them. And I’ve never felt much enthusiasm for tramping about the moors in the damp, either. The seaside strikes me as a much pleasanter place to be, and the company far more congenial.”

“So you’re a convert to Cornwall at last?” Sophie teased, masking a brief pang of what might have been envy. During the last four years, she’d made only flying visits to the county she’d formerly called home. Her family had never questioned the brevity of those visits, but she knew they all wished she would stay longer, especially her mother.

“In moderate doses,” Amy admitted, smiling. “I’m still a city girl at heart, but everyone benefits from a change now and then. The sea air will doubtless do us all some good.”

“Mr. Sheridan, Lady Thornley has arrived,” the butler announced from the doorway.

“Thank you, Marsdon. A new commission,” Sheridan explained to his companions. “I’ll be in my studio for the next hour, at least.”

“I’ll have dinner put back until seven, then,” Amy told him.

“Excellent.” Sheridan kissed his wife and daughter, touched Sophie’s shoulder, and strode from the room, with the abstracted air Sophie had often observed in artists and musicians.

Amy watched after him fondly for a moment, then turned back as Bella’s questing fingers seized upon her mother’s cameo pendant, which she promptly tried to convey to her mouth.

“No, no, my love.” Amy pried her necklace loose from the child’s fist. “You wouldn’t like the taste at all.”

Bella squawked a protest, clearly holding a different opinion.

“Shall I take her for you?” Sophie asked. “Just until you tuck that away.” She nodded toward the pendant. “I’d love to hold her in any case.”

“Then of course you may.” Amy yielded up her daughter with a smile.

It had been several years since Sophie’s nieces and nephew had been small enough to hold like this, but some things the body did not forget. Bella squirmed for a moment in Sophie’s unfamiliar arms, but calmed down almost at once and lay smiling up at her newest admirer. Sophie cradled the baby close, marveling at the warm, light weight in her arms. Not for the first time, she felt a wistful ache about her heart. Sometimes, especially on tour, when she was lonely and weary from travel, she would find herself imagining another life: a home, a husband, children. And then, almost instantly, she would shut the door on that fantasy—because the husband of her imaginings too often wore Robin’s face…

As he did now, so she pushed the idea away determinedly, almost angrily, and summoned a smile for Bella’s mother. “Amy, she’s an absolute darling.”

“
We
think so.” The necklace now safely out of reach, Amy leaned over her daughter. “Thomas, especially. Sometimes he takes her into the studio with him and tries to show her how to hold a brush properly, though she usually tries to gnaw on them instead. Your daddy spoils you rotten, doesn’t he, precious?” she crooned as Bella gurgled agreement. “Do you know, Sophie, I wasn’t sure I was ready to become a mother? But now that she’s here”—her smile grew tremulous—“well, I can’t imagine our lives without her. And Thomas feels just the same way. Mama once told me there’s nothing like sharing a child to bring two people closer. I think I’m even more in love with him now than I was five years ago—” She broke off, her eyes widening in dismay. “Sophie, are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet!”

The memory conjured by Amy’s words had taken Sophie unawares, as sharp and painful as a dagger thrust between her ribs: Nathalie standing on the ballroom threshold, Cyril in her arms, Sara clinging to her skirts. And Robin’s face with its mixture of shock, disbelief, and—when he looked at Sara—longing.

Those children… he’d wanted them. He’d chosen them and Nathalie over
her
and the life they might have had together. Or so the nineteen-year-old girl inside of her tearfully insisted.

Shut
up
.
You
know
it
wasn’t as simple as that. And you know that if he could have divorced her without risking the children’s welfare, he
would
have. Blame the law, not Robin. And not Sara and Cyril.
She used their names deliberately, making them real, not abstractions.

“It’s nothing,” she managed at last. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you certainly don’t
look
fine!” Amy retorted, reclaiming Bella. “You look like you’re about to cry—or possibly be sick! And don’t tell me you’ve got stage fright about tomorrow or some such nonsense like that. You’re usually as cool as a cucumber when it comes to my soirees. So you might as well come out with it. You know I’ll give you absolutely no peace until you do!”

Sophie choked out a laugh that sounded and felt more like a sob. And the confession spilled out of her, a gush of blood from an open wound. “Robin Pendarvis is in London. And I’ve spoken to him.”

Amy grew very still, registering all the implications of that news. “I think, my dear, you had best tell me everything,” she said.

***

“You must think me such a fool,” Sophie said shakily, dabbing at her eyes.

They sat on the sofa together, another half-empty teapot before them, several damp handkerchiefs crumpled around them. The nursemaid had long since borne Bella back to the nursery for her afternoon nap.

Amy, her own eyes wet with sympathy, shook her head. “Never a fool, dearest. Just young—and very much in love. Because you do still love Mr. Pendarvis… don’t you?”

Sophie tucked her handkerchief away, avoiding her friend’s gaze—and her question. “I’m not nineteen anymore. I no longer expect love to solve everything.”

“Of course not. But in my experience, love can simplify as well as complicate matters.”

“How can love simplify anything?”

Amy smiled. “Well, either you still care for Mr. Pendarvis enough to wait for him to divorce his wife, or your feelings have changed to the point where you no longer desire a life with him. If you know the answer to either question, then you also know what course to take.”

Sophie stared down at her hands, lying clenched in her lap. Like Aurelia, Amy had become family—and Thomas as well. Four years ago, they had provided a safe haven when her world had fallen apart. Only her mother had borne closer witness to her heartache then.

“Whatever your choice, I am always on your side,” Amy continued. “I want whatever makes you happy, my dear. That includes keeping Mr. Pendarvis at bay should you choose not to see him again and he fails to respect that.”

“He wouldn’t do that!” The protest was automatic. “Robin’s never been one to intrude where he’s not wanted.” Sophie mustered a wan smile. “He’s punctilious to a fault that way.”

Amy smiled back. “I remember you saying something like that about him when you were here for your Season. About his insisting that you find a worthier man.”

Sophie gave a watery laugh. “And, of course,
I
insisted there was no worthier man. At least, not for me!”

“And do you feel the same way now?” Amy asked.

“I don’t know—perhaps. I do know that I’ve never stopped caring for him. I’m just not sure that’s enough. I’ve learned to be…
content
, Amy. Even happy, at times.” She paused, swallowing painfully. “I remember how much it hurt, four years ago. To love someone that much, and have it end the way it did. I don’t know if I have the courage to do it again.”

“Understood.” Amy squeezed her hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sophie took a breath before she spoke. What came out surprised them both.

“I realize this is short notice, but… would you consider adding one more person to the guest list for tomorrow night?”

***

The dolls stood on the shelf, immaculately dressed and erect as a line of soldiers on parade. Robin stared up into innumerable pairs of glass eyes in various shades of blue, brown, grey, and, in one case, a brilliant green that reminded him painfully of Sophie.

“Which one did you fancy, sir?” the shopgirl asked brightly.

Robin started, then indicated a very pretty doll with soft golden-brown hair and slate blue eyes, wearing a dress and pinafore reminiscent of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
, currently Sara’s favorite book. “That one.”

“An excellent choice, sir,” she approved, taking it down for him.

The doll boasted a jointed body and eyes that opened and shut. She also came with several changes of clothes, and in a fit of extravagance, Robin selected them as well, along with a toy steamer trunk to contain them. Sara did have other dolls, but this one would be the most fashionable by far.

His purchases accruing on the counter behind him, he made one last circuit of the shop. Spying a toy sailboat on a nearby shelf, he automatically began to reach for it, when the memory of Cyril caught him by the throat.

“Let’s be sailors, Papa—let’s run away to sea! I’ll be better there.”

Even after six months, even after knowing how peaceful the boy’s end had been after his long illness, the grief was sharp enough to steal his breath. He closed his eyes until the pain subsided, and then took down the sailboat anyway. Sara had shared her brother’s fondness for boats and the sea. They could sail it in his memory, perhaps on the lily pond on the hotel grounds. Or the bathtub, should the craft prove less than seaworthy.

Lastly, from a curio cabinet toward the back of the shop, he chose a music box shaped like a harpsichord, which played a lilting minuet when one lifted the lid. According to Miss Polgreen, Sara’s former governess, the girl loved music even more than her dolls. He paid for his items, then arranged to have them sent to Miss Sara Pendarvis, care of Lord and Lady Trevenan at Pentreath. His daughter loved receiving things by post. Just a few days ago, he’d sent her some books from Hatchards, including
Through
the
Looking-Glass
, which she hadn’t yet read, and a book of Andrew Lang’s fairy tales. According to a telegram from James and Aurelia, they had already arrived and Sara was enjoying them immensely. Aurelia had taken to reading a fairy tale to the children every night before bedtime, rationing them out like sweets.