SOPHIE HAD NOT SAT DOWN on the bed for more than five minutes when Adell knocked on the door and said that Aunt Bentley wished to see her. Sophie picked up a hairbrush and gave the red curls around her face a few quick swipes. She pinched her cheeks and straightened the lace on her dress before following Adell downstairs to the sitting room.
“Ah, Sophie,” Aunt Bentley said, a piece of paper in her hand. “I was hoping that you would help me write and address these additional invitations to Charles’s party.”
“As you wish.”
Sophie sat down next to her aunt and began to copy the words of the invitation in her best penmanship, for Mariah’s handwriting was much cleaner and more elegant than Sophie’s. She carefully wrote and addressed more than fifty invitations to people she’d never even heard of. At least Adaline will be at the party, Sophie thought. Her family’s invitation had already been sent out with the first batch of letters.
“I see that you’re smiling,” Aunt Bentley said.
“I’m fond of Miss Penderton-Simpson—Adaline,” Sophie explained. “She’s a delightful companion and a good friend.”
“If only Charles would realize as much,” Aunt Bentley said with her usual scowl. “I cannot see why he is holding back when she has everything a young man could wish for—and such excellent family and business connections.”
Sophie nodded absentmindedly, then put down her pen carefully so as not to spill the ink.
“Adaline certainly has all those things, and more. She has a vivacious charm and a lovely personality. But if there is no spark between them, it is not Charles’s fault.”
“‘Spark?’”
“Attraction,” Sophie said simply. “If he doesn’t feel warmly toward her, he shouldn’t ask her to marry him.”
Aunt Bentley scoffed. “You’re showing your naivety again, Sophie. Love is imaginary, like fairies and monsters. People who delude themselves into believing in love make foolish matches like my sister.”
“Did you not love the late Lord Bentley?”
“He didn’t want my love, he wanted a wife,” Aunt Bentley replied flatly. “And I flatter myself that I upheld that position with honor and purpose.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Aunt Bentley smiled at this and then laughed derisively. “Spark, indeed. Nonsense!”
Sophie turned her head to hide her own smile. She felt more than a spark of feeling for Ethan. It was more like a bonfire—wild and out of control.
For the first time ever, Sophie felt pity for her aunt. No one loved her. Sophie certainly didn’t. Mariah was trying to, but she was continually rebuffed. Charles seemed indifferent in her presence, and her husband apparently hadn’t loved her. The only people who loved Aunt Bentley were dead: her father; her mother; and her sister, who’d died alone and in the direst poverty.
How lonely it must be not to be loved.
It certainly was Aunt Bentley’s own fault. She’d refused to take care of her sister’s children, and even now she was only willing to accept one of them. Aunt Bentley was more worried about her position and fortune than she was about personal relationships. And soon she would be all alone. Sophie’s visit would end, and Charles would return to New York.
If I keep pushing people away, I’ll end up all alone, too.
It seemed so simple. Yet, to Sophie, it was as earth-shattering a thought as a thousand-ton hydraulic press. She didn’t want to be like her aunt. She wanted to be able to love others and open herself to love. To trust others to not fail her. To trust herself to not fail them. She had to start letting people into her heart and into her affections.
She only hoped that she wasn’t too late.
Mariah woke up on the floor of Sir Thomas’s studio. She stretched out her arms and legs, and the blanket that was covering her fell off. Her neck felt stiff and her whole body felt as if she were the one wearing metal armor. Gingerly she got to her feet.
Mrs. Spooner walked through the door. “Awake at last, are we?”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Mrs. Spooner smiled. “Genius cannot wait. Let’s see your portrait, then.”
Mariah felt her temperature rise as Mrs. Spooner came near the canvas and began inspecting it with the same circumspection with which she’d examined Sir Thomas’s Joan of Arc.
Sophie’s portrait looked forward defiantly, her curly red hair streaming over her bare shoulders, onto the black dress and out of the painting. Mariah’s soft face turned away from Sophie, her curls pulled back, her dress white with a high collar.
“You’re not at all the same,” Mrs. Spooner said finally. “What do you mean to do with your painting?”
Mariah flushed. “I don’t have any plans.”
“All the better,” Mrs. Spooner said practically. “Mr. Poulton will be arriving today to frame Joan of Arc. With your permission, I’ll have him frame your painting as well.”
Mariah tugged at her sleeve. “How much does that cost?”
“Consider it a gift,” Mrs. Spooner said. “I have a knack for discovering fine artists, and I mean to add you to my list of discoveries.”
“Me?”
“You,” Mrs. Spooner said with a wide grin. “I’ll even venture to have your painting displayed publicly, if you’ll trust me with it.”
“Of course, I can’t thank you enough!” Mariah cried, her eyes beginning to water. “You’ve done so much for me and my sister. There’s no way to repay you…”
“Friendship requires no payment,” Mrs. Spooner said. “Now, go home and see what mischief your sister’s been up to, and leave everything to me.”