Sophie was by herself in the drawing room, her face golden in the light of the candles. I looked away, wishing I were a little less elevated.
“Will you take tea?” she said. “And shall I set a cup for Mr Carswall?”
“I do not think he will be joining us.” My voice emerged more loudly than I had anticipated, and I enunciated my next words with particular care. “Have Mrs Lee and Miss Carswall retired?”
“They are in the library. Mrs Lee recollected seeing a volume containing views of Clearland-court. They have been longer at it than I expected.”
I said that it was not to be wondered at that Miss Carswall wished to dwell upon the scenes of her future felicity. I took my cup of tea and sat on the sofa to drink it. The room was huge and chilly, built for show not comfort. The brief excitement of the wine receded, leaving me still in low spirits, yet still a long way from sobriety. Sophie’s silence unnerved me. There were no forms, no rules of conduct, to guide us in our present position. Dear God, how I would have liked to kneel by her and lay my aching head on her lap. The cup and saucer rattled as I set them down.
“Sophie.”
She stared at me, her face stern, even shocked, as if what had happened yesterday meant nothing, or was merely a figment of my imagination.
“I have to know,” I said. “What happened means everything to me.”
“You are not yourself, sir.”
“I wish to marry you.”
She shook her head and said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear: “It is not possible, Mr Shield. I have to think of Charlie. What is past is past. I regret it immensely, but I am afraid I must ask you never to raise this subject again.”
Miss Carswall’s voice was audible in the hall, addressing Mrs Lee. “The west wing is altogether too mean for a house like Clearland. It will have to be rebuilt. I shall talk to Sir George, by and by.”
So, as the ladies drank tea and chattered about Clearland-court, I knew I was justly repaid for both my presumption and my mendacity. First the presumption: it was one thing for a lady like Sophia Frant to forget herself for an hour or two on a winter afternoon, and quite another for her to marry an apothecary’s son who eked out a living at a private school. Nor was this the end of my bitter reflections on this head. Sophie’s richly deserved refusal of my offer had re-awoken my jealousy of Captain Ruispidge, and granted it a double force.
Then the mendacity: I had not been honest with her about so many things, not least my suspicion that Mr Henry Frant might still be in the land of the living; that he was a murderer as well as an embezzler; and that for all we knew to the contrary he was within a few miles of us. So great was my desire for her that I had urged the innocent Sophie unwittingly to run the risk of committing bigamy, a crime in the eyes of both God and man.
Oh yes, I was justly served. Even I realised that.
The following day was Sunday, and we drove to Flaxern Parva for divine service. Mr Noak and Mr Carswall did not feel equal to the journey and kept each other company by the library fire. The Ruispidge brothers were in church, but not the ladies. Though we sat in separate pews, afterwards I had ample opportunity to watch Miss Carswall and Sir George, Sophie and the Captain, billing and cooing again.
In the coach on the way back, Miss Carswall said, “Poor Mrs Johnson!”
“She is unwell, I collect?” Sophie said.
“Sir George says she has quinsy. Her throat is so swollen she can hardly speak. She had hoped to be well enough to call upon us within a day or two, Sir George said, but must beg to be excused until she is better. The servant has orders to admit no one.”
The coach rumbled on, the horses slipping and the machine swaying dangerously as we bounced in and out of the ice-caked ruts of the road. Miss Carswall said, “Thank heavens Papa is not with us. Can you imagine?” No one replied, and no one spoke for the remainder of the journey.
All that day, Sophie avoided my company. When circumstances threw us together, she would not meet my eyes. I snapped at the boys and was surly with the servants. It is all very well to say one should bear misfortune with philosophy, but in my experience when misfortune comes in by one door, philosophy leaves by the other.