The Arrangement (43 page)

He was not left alone. Neighbors came to compliment him upon reviving the old tradition in such grand fashion, and they stayed to chat. His grandmother came to take his arm for a while. Andy Harrison’s wife brought him a glass of wine.

He had come a long way in a few months. Thanks to Sophia. Though not entirely. He must not be unfair to himself. He had exerted himself. He had pulled himself free of the smothering protection of the female members of his family—without hurting them, he believed. He had worked hard with Shep so that he had a far larger measure of freedom of movement than he had had in the past six years. He had spent long hours with his steward, both in the man’s study and out on the land, learning the ins and outs of his estates and taking an active role in the decision making. He had got to know his neighbors and his laborers. He had made a few real friends. He had gone fishing. He had helped Sophia recover from the terrible trauma of the past five years, and even perhaps from the insecurities of the fifteen before that. He had brought her contentment, he believed, even if not active happiness, and some pleasure, both in and out of the marriage bed. He could now play the harp without wishing every moment that he could simply hurl it through the nearest window. He might even be reasonably competent upon it within the next year or so. He was soon to be a published author.

That last thought made him grin. His toe was still tapping. Sophia was apparently dancing a set with Flavian.

He was very much enjoying having one of his fellow Survivors at Middlebury. They had sat for a couple of hours or longer in the parterre garden yesterday, huddled inside their greatcoats against the unseasonable chill of the day. Sophia had joined them there after a while, and Flavian had commented that it was a pity Vincent would not be able to join the rest of the Survivors at their annual gathering at Penderris Hall next spring.

“But it is so that he can answer a higher c-calling,” he had said, amusement in his voice. “Congratulations are in order, Lady Darleigh. Or am I n-not supposed to know?”

Flavian had not had to be told, of course, that Sophia was with child.

“What do you mean,” Sophia had asked, “that he cannot go? Of course he will go. He must.”

“It will be soon after your confinement, Sophie,” Vincent had said. “Wild horses would not drag me away from you so soon, you know.”

She had been silent for a while. So had Flavian.

“Well, then,” she had said, “everyone must come here instead. Would that ruin everything?
Must
it be at Penderris? I know it is where you all spent those years and where you naturally choose to gather. But
must
it be there? Is not having you all together more important than the place? Vincent,
may
we invite everyone here? Would
you
come, Lord Ponsonby? Or would you rather go to Cornwall, even if it means being without Vincent for one year?”

“We can and we will, Sophie,” Vincent had said. “But—”

“No
buts
about it, Vince,” Flavian had said. “You will be awarded the year’s prize for b-brilliance, Lady Darleigh. With all our seven heads put together, we would never have seen the solution. W-would we, Vince?”

“Perhaps everyone else will disagree with you,” Sophia had said.

“P-perhaps,” he had agreed. “There is one way of finding out.”

“Have you heard from Ben?” Vincent had asked him. “Has anyone?”

“He has fallen off the face of the earth,” Flavian had said. “Just as you did back in the spring, Vince. His sister has been seen in town—the one with whom he is supposedly staying in the north of England, that is, b-but Ben was not clinging to her skirts when she was spotted. Perhaps he is tramping through heather in the Lake District as you were and will emerge with a bride. I rather hope not. It may prove c-contagious.”

Now the dancing was in full swing, and Vincent relaxed in the conviction that Sophia would be happy at the success of all her efforts.

That was all that really mattered tonight—that she be happy.

It was all that mattered
any
time, he thought a little sadly.

S
ophia was happier than she ever remembered being in her life. Not a single thing had gone wrong all evening, and it was close enough to the end to make her relax and decide that nothing
would
go wrong.

Though something still might, of course. There was still a big moment to come.

She had danced every set. She had also seen to it, as had Vincent’s mother and sisters, that everyone else danced too who wished to dance. There were no wallflowers allowed at the Middlebury ball!

Even Henrietta had danced every set, all but one of them with gentlemen she must have considered inferior to herself. Viscount Ponsonby was the exception. He had danced the third set with her.

He had danced twice with Agnes.

The supper had been perfect. The state dining room had looked quite dazzlingly magnificent, and the food had been perfection itself. There had been toasts and speeches—one by Vincent. And there had been the cake, which they had cut into before it was sliced by the servants and set on trays for them to take about to make sure that everyone had a slice. Vincent had come with her, though he had neither held the tray nor dished out the slices of cake. He had charmed everyone with his conversation instead. It was amazing that he had more or less hidden inside the walls of the park for three years, Sophia thought. In the past few months he had grown enormously popular, just as he had used to be at Barton Coombs.

There were two sets remaining after supper, the first of which was a waltz. It was the only one all evening, since even now it was not a really well known dance out in the country. But Sophia knew it—she had practiced the steps with her uncle in the music room. And Vincent had watched it danced out in the Peninsula and knew the steps. He had been present when she had waltzed with her uncle, and she had seen his foot tapping in time to the music Miss Debbins played.

It was announced when she was at his side. He was smiling genially about him, though she guessed that it must have been a trying evening for him. Though perhaps not. He seemed to enjoy talking with everyone. Perhaps the fact that he was standing in his own state ballroom added to his enjoyment.

But how sad it was that he could not see all the splendor or participate in the more energetic of the activities.

“It is a waltz, Vincent,” she said.

“Ah.” He smiled. “You must dance it, then, Sophie. With your uncle? You practiced with him.”

“With you,” she said. “I mean, I must dance it with you.”

She took his hand in both her own and backed a short way onto the dance floor.

“With me?” He laughed. “I think not, Sophie. That
would
be a spectacle for everyone to behold.”

“It would,” she agreed and backed up one more step.

No one else had yet stepped onto the floor, and they had caught the attention of those people who were close to them, and awareness quickly spread. The volume of conversation decreased considerably.

“No.” He laughed. “Sophie—”

“I want to waltz,” she said. “With my husband.”

Someone—Mr. Harrison?—began to clap his hands slowly. Viscount Ponsonby joined him. And soon it seemed that half the guests in the ballroom were clapping in time with one another.

Oh, dear. Sophia had not intended this moment to be half as public. But it was too late now to do it differently.

“Waltz with me,” she said as softly as she could.

Not softly enough.

“Waltz with her,” Mr. Harrison said—it was unmistakably he this time.

And then it became a chant from their segment of the ballroom.

“Waltz with her. Waltz with her.”

“Sophie—” Vincent laughed.

So did she.

And he walked out onto the empty floor with her.

“If I make a thorough spectacle of myself,” he said just loudly enough to be generally heard, “would everyone be kind enough to pretend they have not noticed?”

He laughed again.

And the orchestra played the opening chord and did not wait for anyone else to take the floor.

It was very clumsy and awkward at first, and Sophia was terrified that she really was going to cause him great humiliation—not to mention herself. But she had practiced the steps very carefully. She had also, with her uncle’s full collaboration, practiced leading without appearing to do so.

His feet found the steps, and his fingers spread against the back of her waist and his other hand nestled her own within it more comfortably. His head came up and he smiled very nearly into her eyes. He danced her into a spin and she laughed and had to make an effort to keep them both on their feet and within the confines of the dancing floor.

It was probably not the most elegant demonstration of the waltz ever performed. But it was wonderful nevertheless. And they had the whole floor to themselves. Whether that was because everyone else was terrified of being collided with or whether it was because everyone was enjoying watching, she did not know. She was aware at one point that most people were clapping to the rhythm of the music.

“Vincent,” she said after a few minutes, “will you ever forgive me?”

“Maybe after a century or so,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Well, maybe after a decade.”

And then he spun her again, but she was ready for it this time and steered them safely.

“I have always,
always
wanted to do this,” she said.

“Waltz?”

“Waltz with
you
.”

“Oh, Sophie,” he said, and his hand tightened slightly at her waist. “I am so sorry I cannot—”

“But you can,” she told him. “You can see with every part of your being except your eyes. Tell me you are enjoying it.”

“I am,” he said, and he drew her so close that she almost brushed against him. “Oh, I am.”

Candlelight was wheeling overhead. Colored gowns were a kaleidoscope of pastels about the perimeter of the ballroom. Mirrors multiplied the candlelight and the twinkling of jewels to infinity.

“Such sounds and smells,” he said. “I will never forget this moment. Sophie. I am actually
waltzing
.”

She bit hard on her upper lip. It certainly
would
be humiliating to have all their guests see her weep. And then somehow her eyes focused upon his mother, who was standing with Ursula close to the doors. Tears were openly trickling down her cheeks.

And then there was a break in the music, and before the next waltz tune began, other dancers joined them on the floor.

W
hen Sebastian Maycock came to ask Sophia for the final set of the evening, Vincent gave her as much freedom of choice as she had given him before the waltz.

“My wife has already promised the set, I am afraid, Maycock,” he said. “To me.”

He could almost feel her look of surprise.

“Yes, I have,” she said with scarcely a moment’s pause. “But thank you for asking me, Sebastian. It looks as if the elder Miss Mills is without a partner. The lady in green.”

“You are
not
contemplating dancing the Roger de Coverley, are you?” she asked when Maycock had apparently taken himself off to solicit the hand of Miss Mills.

“I am contemplating a quiet stroll on the terrace with my wife,” he said. “It is probably too cold out there for you, though.”

“I shall send someone for our cloaks,” she said and promptly deserted him.

She was back a few moments later, and only a couple of minutes after that she murmured thanks to someone and handed him his evening cloak. He could hear the sets forming on the floor. The noise level had increased. It was to be the final set.

It seemed they were the only ones out on the terrace. His ears told him so, and Sophia confirmed the fact when he asked. It was not surprising. Though it was not a really cold night, the breeze was nippy.

“Happy?” he asked as she tucked an arm beneath his and guided him in what he guessed was the direction of the parterre gardens.

He heard her exhale.

“Happy,” she said. “Everything has gone well, has it not? More than well. Oh, Vincent, we
must
do this more often. Perhaps when your friends come next spring. They will come, will they not?”

He did not answer her.

“Sophie,” he said, “you will stay, will you not? I mean, for the baby’s sake? I could not bear to part with it as well as with you, and I do not believe you could bear to leave it with me. Could you?”

“Oh, of course not,” she said. “Yes, of course I will stay. I am only sorry—”

“I am
very
sorry about your cottage,” he said. “I know you would love it and your life there more than anything, but—”

“Oh, Vincent,” she said, “I would
not
.”

“But when you were showing your sketchbook to Ursula and Ellen out here in the garden—”

“I sketched it for our
stories,
” she told him. “I did not intend for it to look like my dream cottage, but that is how it turned out. And then I could not resist putting Tab in the picture. Yes, it is a dream of a cottage, Vincent. When my life was so desperately empty and lonely, and when I thought myself ugly and unlovable, I thought nothing could be more desirable. But compared with the reality of my life now, it is … Well, it is
pitiful
.”

“You mean,” he said, “you no longer wish for it? Even if you were not increasing?”

“No,” she said quite emphatically. “How could I? But, Vincent, I
wish
I were not a woman.”

“What?” He laughed. He was feeling a bit light-headed actually.

“Just another woman interfering with your freedom,” she said.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“You said it to Mr. Croft,” she said. “The day he left Shep with you. You said I was just another woman looking after you and interfering with your independence.”

“I am sure I said no such thing,” he told her indignantly, trying to remember what exactly he might have said. “How could I unless I had been lying through my teeth?”

“But you said it,” she said. “I heard you.”

“Sophie,” he said, “my mother and my sisters loved me to distraction and did everything for me and quite inadvertently
stifled
me. You came along with your wonderful ideas and did just the opposite. You gave me my freedom back and a large measure of independence. You silly goose, whatever you overheard on that day, you must have misunderstood. I would
never
have said you took away my freedom.
Never,
Sophie. You brought light back into my life.”