“You’re a romantic at heart, I think.”
“Which story do you think is true?”
“The third one. I think Kenton’s great-grandfather bought the base from a farmer who dug it up, planted a circular grove as an artistic conceit, and put a sundial in the middle because he was a cross-grained creature who lived for confusing his descendants.”
Now Sophie did laugh out loud. He grinned at her like a fair magician who has turned an ordinary glass of water into three pigeons, an India-rubber ball, and a lit candle.
“Whether Roman temple, Druid shrine, or hoax; I’m not walking up there to see it today. My feet are cold and it must be time for luncheon.”
“Agreed. Provided you’ll walk up with me again at the solstice. Somehow I’ve never come here on that day, though I’ve often said I must.”
“If I’m in Finchley then, I will, I promise.”
“Have to promise. If. Terrible word.”
“Very well, then,” she said indulgently. “I promise.”
“Good. And as a reward, you won’t have to walls back to the house in wet-—my goodness, they are wet, aren’t they?”
Sophie hoped he wasn’t planning to carry her. Just then, she heard the jingle of bells. Overtaking them quickly were several of the grooms from the stables, ropes over their shoulders, pulling along behind them a wooden sled with a rail around it and small bells dangling from the front.
“Here they are,” Dominic said. “Madam, your chariot.”
She couldn’t refuse, not when the boys’ tingling cheeks and bright eyes told her how fast they’d run.
With Dominic’s help, she seated herself, arranging the cloak to hide her feet, tucking her hands inside her muff. “What about your luncheon?” she asked him.
“Tell them not to wait.”
He nodded to the boys and they were running her away, their feet sinking into the snow but each urging the others on. Sophie looked back to see Dominic turn his face toward the circular grove on the hill and begin trudging toward it once more. She wondered which of the stories he’d told her was the one that drew him thither.
After dinner, Sophie indulged herself by playing the pianoforte. “I’m terribly stiff,” she said when Dominic came over to turn the pages for her. “And out of practice,” she added, hitting two wrong notes in a row.
“Are you a good pianist?” he asked.
“What, can’t you hear that I have a rare gift?” she said, striking a flat instead of a sharp.
“I never studied music,” he said. “But I do enjoy listening to other people play ... well.”
Sophie shook her head. “I hope to improve with application.” She played a long arpeggio, nearly perfectly, then looked up at him, lifting her eyebrows, inviting comment.
“Not bad. You didn’t play much in Italy, I take it?”
“Once in a while. Broderick played the flute and sometimes we’d meet with friends and hold a chamber evening. But Mr. Fulton, who played the cello, had to return to America, and took the piano with him.”
“Speaking of Broderick,” Dominic said, “how do you mean to organize his poems?”
“To be honest, I don’t really know. I’ve been so distracted with this journey home. I have very little in mind beyond the mere determination to have them put before the public.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“Not at present. May I take them to read?”
“Certainly,” she said, closing the piano lid. “I’ll get them for you now.”
“There’s no hurry. I’ll collect them before I go to bed.” Dominic turned toward his friend, who was kicking idly at the fire.
“Is something wrong with Kenton?” Sophie whispered, under the pretext of cobbling together the music sheets.
“Looming fatherhood tends to sober a man, or so I’ve heard. I’d better talk to him.”
Not wanting to have the appearance of an eavesdropper, Sophie drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders and went to the window. She drew back the curtain with one hand, looking out into the grounds. The silver candelabra on the rosewood piano cast a golden halo around her. Her reflection in the glass was ghostlike.
Outside, the snow seemed to have a light of its own, as does the moon. At first the woman who walked across the frozen crust appeared like a black shadow against the pale glow. Sophie couldn’t even be sure there was someone there rather than an arrangement of shadows turned into human form by her own mind.
Sophie let the curtain fall behind her, cutting off the light. Now she could see far better. A woman indeed walked back and forth, a few yards at a time. Like Sophie, she wore only a shawl, insufficient against the cold.
Apparently someone else thought so, too. A streak of yellow light reached out across the snow from an opened door somewhere out of Sophie’s sight. Another woman appeared—Lucia, the younger of the two Italian girls. The light showed up the spangles of melting ice in Angelina’s hair and the desperation of her face. She looked astonishingly beautiful but frightening as well, like a mask of tragedy.
Sophie couldn’t hear what they said to each other. Obviously, Lucia urged her sister to come in out of the cold. Angelina shook her head so emphatically that some of her hair shook loose. Lucia gently tucked it behind her sister’s ear and took her hand to lead her into the building. Angelina obviously didn’t want to go, but slowly she began to walk along, her arms wrapped around her middle, Lucia’s arm supporting her as if she were sick or wounded.
Sophie stepped back through the curtain. Dominic and Kenton were still in conference by the fireplace. She passed out of the room unnoticed, though when some instinct made her glance back, Dominic was smiling at her.
She hurried toward the servants’ hall. Her mother, coming down the stairs, called to her. Sophie waited for her. “I think Angelina’s ill, Mother. I was going to see.”
“Dear me. I hope she hasn’t brought anything contagious into this house.”
“I doubt it. We were all given a clean bill of health when we arrived.”
“Well, I shall go with you. If she’s ill, she will have to see Dr. Richards at once. We mustn’t risk any danger to Maris at this delicate tune.”
“No, of course not.”
After a little effort, they found that the girls had gone to the room they shared on the third floor. Sophie persuaded her mother that it was unnecessary for her to climb the narrow steps that wound from the kitchens to the upper levels. She left her discussing the proper diet for a new mother with Mrs. Lemon.
Her candle threw weird shadows as Sophie climbed up from one floor to the next. The Danesbys had not lavished so much attention on this part of the house, the carpet being of drugget and the banister a plain run of pine. Though the kitchen below was both warm and airy, the stairs were neither, being drafty and haunted by the smells of long-ago meals. She cupped her hand around the candle flame to keep it from blowing out. Sophie was relieved to see buckets of both water and sand on each landing in case of fire.
Emerging at last onto the third floor, Sophie looked for the fourth door on the right. This upper hall, though plainly papered and painted, had a welcoming look, if not temperature. A pretty blue vase stood upon a barley-twist table at the end of the narrow hail, adding a bit of color to a utilitarian area.
Even before Sophie found the door she sought, she heard the sound of idiomatic Italian spoken with great rapidity and a good deal of force. If there had been English people talking that quickly and with that volume, she would have broken in the door, anticipating a murder or at least a violent altercation. It had taken her several months of living in Rome to learn that when someone spoke very quickly and loudly, it didn’t mean that they were angry with her.
She knocked and the voice, only one, stopped in mid word. After a moment, in which Sophie thought she heard whispering, someone said,
“Si?”
“Mi scusi, Lucia. Permesso?
”
“Ah, Signora Banner,” Lucia said, opening the door a few inches. She wore a dressing gown, held tightly against her throat, her hair pouring like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her smile held no hint of anxiety, only sleepiness.
Sophie was surprised to see her ready for bed and said so. Lucia started on a long tale of having a headache and wishing to go to sleep early. Not being able to ask for permission from the upper servants and not wishing to disturb Sophie, she’d retired on her own responsibility.
“Ma, Angelina aiuterà, signora.”
“Non è importante, grazie.”
But Lucia insisted it was important and that Angelina would be down to wait on Signora Banner in not more than half an hour. A voice from within the room made Lucia turn her head to listen. She said something short and sharp which, nonetheless, made Angelina laugh. Sophie heard something about a barking dog, one of those Italian phrases for which she’d never understood the meaning behind the words.
Sophie wished Lucia a good evening and a restful right. Somewhat puzzled, she picked up her candle from the hall table and descended the narrow back staircase. Perhaps she’d misinterpreted what she’d seen outside. Angelina no longer seemed to be in emotional distress. People were incalculable. Angelina had not seemed like a volatile personality, either in Rome or on the ship. Therefore, if she were laughing now, she probably hadn’t been overset outside.
Mrs. Lindel having left the kitchen, Sophie went in search of her to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about. No one was ill. There would be no risk to Mans or her child.
Mrs. Lindel had returned to the drawing room. Sophie entered, looking about her. “Where are the men?”
“They’ve gone to play billiards and probably to smoke, if I know men. How is your little maid?”
“Perfectly well. I don’t know what made me think she
was
ill.”
“I do so hope you’re not going to become prophetic, dearest. I had a great-aunt who used to see visions of great events before they happened.”
“Did you? I never heard this tale,” Sophie said, sinking down on an ottoman at her mother’s feet.
Mrs. Lindel laid the
Ladies’ Magazine
down on her knee, marking her place with her finger. “Oh, yes. My mother’s aunt used to see the most terrible visions at the most inconvenient times. One would be entertaining the bishop or some such person when Great-Aunt Oralie would shout out some nonsense about flying chariots or black clouds of doom hovering over people.”
“How embarrassing.”
“To say the least.”
“Why did she do it?”
“Who can say? I was so young all I could do was cringe. Now that I’m older, I believe I understand. I think it was a desire to improve a rather dull existence by making herself interesting. She never married nor, I believe, did anyone ever wish to marry her. With so little to think about, who can blame her for inventing a talent for prophecy?”
“No, I couldn’t blame her. If anything, I envy her,” Sophie said, staring down at the pale gold glint of her wedding band.
“Envy her?”
“I wish my life had been that dull. I would rather have imaginary troubles.”
“And no love?” Her mother’s eyes were kind and wise, deep wells of both love and sorrow.
“I was happy when I thought Broderick loved me. Perhaps he even did, for a little while.”
“Did you love him longer than a little while?”
“Yes, for all the good it did me.”
“I’m not sure that doing oneself good is the reason we seek after love. Tell me. Do you blame me for not stopping you as I could have done?”
Sophie glanced up and surprised a tear on her mother’s face. Instantly she reached up to clasp her hand. “No. I never thought that for one instant. Marrying him was my choice. When it went wrong, that was my fault as much as his.”
“He misled you about the life he saw for the two of you.”
“No, I think I misled myself. I can’t be sure at this point what Broderick wanted. I only know it wasn’t what I had to offer.”
Mrs. Lindel patted Sophie’s cheek with her petal-soft fingers. “I didn’t realize Broderick was so blind. How any man, looking at you, could look elsewhere …”
“Ah, but you didn’t see Catherine Margrave. An olive-skinned, plump brunette with cupid’s-bow lips and the most enchanting beauty spot above her left cheekbone. She had strange, light green eyes, in piquant contest to her coloring. All the men were mad for her at first sight.”
“You knew her, then?”
“Certainly,” Sophie said lightly, sitting back on her heels. “We met some weeks before Broderick ever saw her. I actually liked her very much.”
“Then she betrayed you when she stole your husband.”
“Broderick was very attractive. And...” she hesitated, cobbling together her thought and philosophy. “I don’t believe that anyone can steal another’s love. She didn’t hit Broderick on the head and drag him off to live with her. He went most willingly, even joyfully.”
“It’s hard for me to understand such a man. Your father never would have made that sort of break with me, however many mistresses he had in keeping.”
“Mother? He didn’t...”
“I don’t know. I suspected sometimes, but we never spoke of it and actually, now that I look back, I can’t be sure. No one who mattered, at any rate.”
Sophie could see herself being willfully blind about such matters if Broderick had only let that be an option. “When I look at your marriage and Maris’s, it does give me hope that mine was no more than an aberration.”
The ormolu clock above the marble fireplace chimed with crystal clarity. “Is it so late? We’d better retire if we are to visit Miss Bowles early.”
“True.” Sophie leaned on her mother’s chair and stood up. “I think I’ll find a book and read for a little first. I’ve had so little time to read lately.”
“I’ll go look in on Maris. Kenton said she was very tired tonight.”
Sophie paused mid-step. “Do you think it will be soon?”
“Before Christmas, I think. Her silhouette has changed.”
“Oh. Oh, I see, I think.” Sophie leashed her thoughts, not wanting to travel down that path. Though she had once believed herself pregnant for several weeks the summer after she was married, she had never imagined the details of childbirth. Though her disappointment had been intense at the time, she’d soon realized it was all for the best. Now she was torn between excitement at the birth of her niece or nephew and sympathy for what Maris would soon suffer.