The Midnight Queen (40 page)

Sophie looked at Gray and bit back a laugh; was this not exactly what they had settled as ideal, during one of those long evenings spent debating and deciding the futures of all their acquaintance?

“Of course, Joanna, you are most welcome,” Jenny was saying, with a merry smile, “but you may find our life here fuller of tiresome morning callers and offering much less of intrigue and excitement than has been true of late . . .”

Joanna grinned. “You will need my help, then, to amuse you. And if I cannot live with Sophie—”

She stopped, putting her hand to her lips, and at once all eyes were on Sophie. But it was the work of a moment to turn all this curiosity away—this time entirely without magick. “Cousin Maëlle,” she said, quietly, carefully, “have you thought where
you
will make your home?”

“For the moment,” Mrs. Wallis replied, not in the least discountenanced, “I shall stay here, where I am most needed; Joanna may be a most amusing companion, but her training in midwifery, I regret to say, has been sadly neglected.”

Jenny was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin behind her hand.

“As far as my future is concerned,” Mrs. Wallis continued imperturbably, “I have had a dozen invitations, at the least, since arriving in Town; you need not concern yourself for
my
welfare, I think.”

Sophie thought of the unread letter secreted in her work-basket. Whether it contained some similar invitation, or quite the reverse, there was no knowing, and she could not settle in her mind which possibility she most dreaded.
I used to pity Joanna so, because Mama would not love her; and now I should give anything to be in her place . . .

Well. Anything but Gray.

*   *   *

“How dare he? How
dare
he!”

Woken abruptly in the half light of false dawn, Gray saw Sophie fling a sheaf of papers from her with such force that the row of twittering sparrows on the Carrington-street windowsill took flight in alarm. “How dare who, and what?” he demanded ungrammatically, rubbing his eyes, as the pages settled to the floor. “What is the matter,
cariad
?”

She turned to him with the ashen face and black, blazing eyes of violent wrath. “He—How can he think—To suggest that I might choose—that
anything
might induce me to—” She held out one hand, and the scattered pages reassembled themselves between her fingers and thumb; then, furious, she thrust them at Gray.

Startled, he rubbed his eyes again with his free hand. Had he indeed seen her execute a wordless summoning? Some instinct of self-preservation led him to set the question aside for a more propitious moment, and instead peruse what proved to be a letter to Sophie from her father, written two days since.

“He may perhaps misunderstand the nature of our attachment,” he ventured, having read the missive through.

There was nothing in its intent, he felt sure, but affection for Sophie and a wish to improve her circumstances; the method, however, plainly would not answer.

Did not Sophie wish to know her brothers? His Majesty inquired. They were eager to be acquainted with her. Did she not wish to be launched into the best society by the Queen?

Gray snorted.

Should she not like to have at her disposal the extensive library of the Royal Palace, its renowned gardens and generously furnished music-rooms? To study with the finest masters of music, drawing, riding, and dancing?

Hmm.

Lastly, His Majesty's dearest Sophia was assured that no effort or expense should be spared in releasing her with all possible speed from the marriage into which she had been forced by Lady Maëlle's fears for her and Lord Carteret's machinations, and that no future alliance should be entered into without her express prior approval.

Ah. Now I see.
But enough of the old Gray Marshall remained to feel astonished and grateful that such a woman as Sophie should be outraged at the thought of giving him up.

“Should you not like to see the Palace library?” he said, seeking a less inflammatory approach to the subject. “And the harp your mother played, and the gardens where she must have walked—”

“Have you forgotten how my mother came to leave that harp, and those gardens, and that library? Perhaps
he
has—but
I
have not, nor will such an offer as
this
ever induce me to consider myself his debtor. I have saved his life; I have sworn my allegiance, when—apparently—I might have led a rebellion; let him be satisfied, and leave us in peace.”

“But,
cariad
,” Gray objected, “he makes no mention of any debt on
your
part; quite the contrary. He wishes only to know you better, I think, though I must concede that he has not chosen the best means to effect a reconciliation . . .”

Sophie folded her arms, shivering; the worst of her anger had evidently burned itself out. Gray reached out a hand to her, and she crept into bed again.

“It is not only that,” she admitted, once settled in the curve of his arm, her head against his shoulder. “I cannot help thinking, you know, what insult I should be offering to Queen Edwina, and how much she must dislike me; can he not see how unpleasant it must be for all of us—and for her most of all?”

She paused for breath, and Gray was about to suggest that the Queen might one day come to appreciate her merits, when she went on: “But the worst of it . . . it is no wonder, I suppose—I was a babe in arms when last he saw me—but to offer me a home, as though I were still a child—to suggest that I am anxious to be released from our marriage—”

“I am sure your father meant no insult,
cariad
. He has drawn a wrong conclusion, but not an unreasonable one, in the circumstances.”

“Perhaps so, but the insult is none the less for being unintended. He might have
asked
me why I married you—might he not? Assuming, that is, that he believes me capable of knowing my own mind.”

There could be no arguing with this.

“How am I to accept his assurances that I shall be allowed to choose my own husband, when he cannot see that I have done so already? I am to take him at his word, after—after
everything
?”

“Sophie.” Gray shifted a little, so as to look down into her face. “Sophie, your father loves you; a blind man could see that he loves you, and loved your mother, and that he bitterly regrets the choice he once made. I am sure, indeed, he felt there
was
no choice. You know very well that the monarch must sometimes do what the man abhors.”

“And what of it?” A challenge—though she was not unaffected by this view of the question. “It is all very well for him to be sorry, but his regret can do no good to anyone—can it? If it cannot make him consider his wife's feelings or her dignity, or respect his sons—if it cannot show him that I am a woman grown and not the child he once sold away—”

Sophie's words were swallowed in a choking sob, and she scrubbed at her eyes with white-knuckled fists. At last she drew a ragged breath and sat up, wrapping her arms about her drawn-up knees.

Gray laid one hand on the curve of her back. “You need not go and live in the Royal Palace, if you do not wish it,” he said. “Your father knows better now, surely, than to attempt to command you. But . . .” He paused, considering, and after a moment went on: “You spoke once, long ago, of wishing for a brother; should you not like to be better acquainted with the three you have? And a father who loves you, and wishes to know you better—this is not a gift to be lightly thrown away . . .”

Sophie turned and put her hand against his cheek, and for some time sat silent and still.

“You are right, of course,” she said at last, with a sigh. “He means well.”

“Of course he does,” said Gray, encouragingly. “And I am sure, when you have properly explained the situation—”

There was a discreet knock at the door: young Daisy, leaving morning tea on a tray outside their door.

Both of them released their wards; Gray threw back the bedcovers and crossed the room to retrieve the tray.

“I am sure,” he repeated, setting the tea-things down on the dressing-table, “he will be perfectly satisfied that you made the choice yourself, and are happy in it.”

Sophie's expression brightened as she considered this, which encouraged him to add, “You have only to tell him the whole story from the beginning—how you fell madly in love with me from our first meeting, and nothing would do for you but to marry me at once—” He broke off, laughing, when Sophie flung a cushion at his head, an expression of wifely ire rather spoilt, however, by her subsequently bouncing up out of bed and kissing him.

“We must take thought, however,” he said; “before we have quite exhausted the hospitality of my sister and brother, I must endeavour to find some gainful employment, so that we may have something to live on, and somewhere to live.”

“But—Gray—” Sophie looked stricken. “Will you not go back to Oxford, to finish your studies? After defying your own father, at such a cost, you will not let—
this
—”

“Merlin cannot be my home now, Sophie,” he replied, as gently as he could. “Even were my petition accepted and my place assured—which is by no means certain—I should be no more willing to live in College without you, than you to play the dutiful royal daughter without me. A married Fellow is one thing; a married student is quite another. But our friends will see to it that we are not without books, you know, and I hope we shall neither of us give up our studies . . .”

Sophie was silent a long moment, gazing into the banked fire. Then she slipped out of bed again to stand before him. “
Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia
,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

Above this echo of their marriage-vows, Gray's ears rang for just a moment with the high, clear singing of many voices. He smiled down at Sophie. She returned the smile, so that all her face blossomed into exquisite beauty; then she bent her head and began to pour out the tea.

Thereafter

In London, the
twelfth day of November dawned grey and damp. The sentence of death had been carried out on Viscount Carteret, who had once had the ear of King Henry; the feast of thanksgiving was yet to come; and Sophie and Gray were bidden to a private audience with their King. Sophie's many letters to him ought surely to have made her position clear; it was difficult to guess, therefore, what had prompted this insistence on a meeting. But here they sat, waiting to be summoned into His Majesty's presence.

Gray was lost in thought, pondering the half-mad idea that had begun to possess his idle moments. Sophie, he knew, dreaded some renewal of her father's pleas to her, to “return to the bosom of her family”; she knew that her refusal to play the fêted, cosseted Princess puzzled and confounded her father. Nor was either of them comforted by Sophie's growing conviction that the King valued her chiefly for her resemblance to her mother.

A steward emerged into the corridor where they waited. “Mr. Marshall?” he said. “His Majesty would speak privately with you.”

Gray gave Sophie's hand a reassuring squeeze and rose to follow the steward and make his leg before the King.

“Mr. Marshall,” the King began, “I have been considering your future.”

Gray blinked.

“First, however, we must consider my daughter's.”

He sat back in his chair and studied Gray, who returned his gaze as calmly as he could manage. There was something in the King's tone which, though he could not have said precisely why, he did not much like.

“Mr. Marshall, let us be frank with one another,” said His Majesty. “I have no wish to give offence, nor am I in danger of forgetting the very great service which you and your friends have rendered to your kingdom, both in exposing and frustrating a most malicious plot and in rescuing the Princess Royal from the hands of the traitors. I shall not insult you by suggesting that your motives in entering into this marriage were of an ambitious or mercenary nature—”

“I thank you for that courtesy, Your Majesty.”

“I would point out, however,” the King continued, smoothly ignoring this interruption, and Gray's rather less than courteous tone, “that to an impartial observer, the circumstances suggest that Lady Maëlle chose you as her . . . instrument in this matter rather because you happened to be at hand, than because the match suited either my daughter or yourself, and that, the marriage having accomplished the purpose for which Lady Maëlle designed it, there can be no necessity for its perpetuation.”

“Sir—”

“You and my daughter are both very young, Mr. Marshall, with all your lives before you; it seems hard that you should be tethered to one another by a choice made in such haste, and made by others—”

“Your Majesty.”

The King closed his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

“With respect, sir, I fear you are labouring under a grave misapprehension,” said Gray, choosing his words with care. “I did not offer marriage to Sophie at Lady Maëlle's instigation—though I do not deny that I hoped to defeat Lord Carteret's plans for her, such as we understood them to be. I wished to marry your daughter, sir, because I love her.”

This the King evidently had not expected; his eyebrows rose further, and he made no reply.

“And though I cannot speak for Sophie in this matter,” Gray went on, doggedly, “she has certainly given me to understand that she accepted me for the same reason.”

His Majesty appeared to consider this idea.

“You are a talented mage, I am told, Mr. Marshall,” he said at length. “It would not be beyond your powers to persuade a young woman, innocent of the world, to believe herself in love?”

“Beyond my powers? I cannot say,” said Gray, clenching both hands to steady his voice. Any man might be overcareful of his daughter's welfare; an accusation of this kind was another thing entirely. “I should as soon exercise persuasion of that kind upon any woman as use my talent to kill a man for his purse. Sir.”

“Pray do not take offence, Mr. Marshall!” the King exclaimed. “I do not accuse you of malicious intent. It had occurred to me, however, that a man—or any other person closely concerned in the matter—might resort to such means of persuasion in service of some unexceptionable goal. To reconcile a woman of delicate sensibilities to a marriage of necessity, for example.”

“Sir, with respect—”

The heavy doors crashed open, and between them stood Sophie, pale with alarm. “Gray!” she cried, flinging herself towards him at a run.

He advanced to meet her and folded her tightly into his arms. “Sophie—”

“What has he been saying to you?” she demanded, pushing him a little away from her so as to look up, searchingly, into his face.

“I believe your father wishes to know what—since it cannot have been my fortune, my prospects, or my looks—could have induced you to marry me.”

“But—but I have told him again and again—I have written so many letters, explaining—”

“Your protestations, however,” said Gray gently, controlling his anger for her sake, “might have been made under the influence of some spell that made you believe you felt what you did not.”

Sophie stared up at him in bewilderment. He saw the moment when understanding dawned in the darkening of her eyes, and felt it in the rigid tension of her shoulders under his hands.

She shook off his grip and turned, slowly, to face her father. “This accusation is infamous, Your Majesty,” she said, in a voice that trembled. “You insult my husband, and so insult me. I think we can have nothing more to say to one another.”

“Sophie—”

“
No
, Gray. We shall not stay here to be insulted and abused.” She caught his arm and tried to propel him through the door.

“A moment, Sophie. Sir,” said Gray quietly, standing fast despite her, and turning back to the King—who had risen from his seat and stood looking at Sophie in an agony of indecision. “You have one last opportunity, I think, to begin to undo the damage you have done. Were I you, I should not waste it.”

The King cast him a glance in which opposing impulses were strangely mingled—hope and fear, gratitude and resentment. Then both turned their eyes to Sophie, who had halted on the threshold, staring at the floor.

“Sophia,” said the King, in a choked voice. “The name your mother gave you. You are so very like her, my dear.” He swallowed, then drew breath. “I would not repeat my errors. Sophia, do you indeed love this man?”

Sophie turned to look at Gray, and her furious eyes softened. “I do,” she said firmly.

“And it is your determination to continue in this marriage, even if it should condemn you to penury? Yes, Mr. Marshall,” he added, his gaze still on Sophie, “you see I know all about you.”

“It is,” said Sophie.

“I am not altogether destitute, Your Majesty,” said Gray stiffly. “I have—”

“I should not care if you were,” Sophie interrupted, catching his hands in hers, and holding his gaze.

“To say true,
cariad
, I had rather be your husband and a pauper than the richest man in the kingdom.”

“That is all very finely spoken,” said the King dryly. Gray gave a guilty start and tore his attention away from Sophie's luminous brown eyes. “I should find you singing a different tune, I fancy, after a year's trial. However: you have both been punished enough through your involvement in this business; I think we shall not undertake the trial, for the present.”

They stood, hands clasped, and regarded him in puzzlement. What could this mean?

“Mr. Marshall, your erstwhile tutor's property being forfeit for his treason, as you know, I have it in mind to grant you his Breton estate, in recognition of your service to your kingdom. It is not the very finest in the kingdom, to be sure,” he added, “nor even in the country, but its possession certainly must serve to hedge you against, as you put it, destitution.”

It was a bewitching vision: to live amidst the beauties of that country, Sophie's country, almost within sight of the sea—to have that library for their own, and the pleasure of improving it—and surely such lands and wealth must win even Edmond Marshall's respect. But—

“But what of Miss Callender, and Jo—and Miss Joanna?”

“You know very well that they cannot be permitted to inherit, given their father's crime,” the King said. “That does not mean, of course, that your house may not welcome what friends you choose, to live in it with you, or even in your stead.”

“I—I thank you, Your Majesty. Very much.”

“We both thank you, Your Majesty,” Sophie added in a small voice, “for my sisters' sake.”

Gray understood her: How could she desire to be mistress of that house, where she had so long been a prisoner? “I think, however,” he said, “that we had rather not make our home there for the present. If—if I may make free, Your Majesty, to propose an alternative?”

The King sighed. “By all means, name your price, Mr. Marshall,” he said dryly.

Gray imagined the newly named Chief Privy Counsellor casting up his eyes.

“Recent events, as you know, have interrupted my studies,” he began, “and Sophie has seen almost nothing of the world beyond the Pr— beyond our small corner of Breizh. Nor has she had opportunities to study as she ought. I should very much like to have my former place at Merlin College restored to me; but . . .” He hesitated a moment, very much aware of Sophie's hand in his; she had not authorised, not directly, the request he was about to make on her behalf, but if he did not press their joint victory now, would Fortune grant him another chance to do so?

“But Sophie must have a place also,” he said at last, and, ignoring her quick indrawn breath, hurried on: “She has earned it, a thousand times over—besides her talent, she has all the makings of a thorough scholar—and though the Senior Fellows would refuse her at her own request, or mine, surely they cannot refuse an admission by royal fiat. I understand, Your Majesty, that it is not—”

But the King was waving a hand to quiet him. “Of course, of course you are right,” he said. Gray could not conceal his astonishment. “Your mother would have wished it,” His Majesty added, to Sophie. “She was a scholar herself, you know, and dreamed of being another Lady Morgan one day, the sponsor of a college for clever young ladies. Perhaps you shall be her heiress in this as well. But, Sophia—Sophie—you will come and see your old father now and again, will you not?”

Sophie was pressed close against Gray's side; he could feel her pulse racing.

“I . . .” she began. She looked up at Gray, her face mirroring his own disbelief. Could it be? Such a gift to them both—to make a place for them—for both of them, together—where they most longed to be?

At last, squaring her shoulders, Sophie turned back to address the King. “Yes,” she said, more firmly. “Yes, Father, I shall.”