MARIAH PICKED UP HER CHARCOAL pencil and slowly practiced outlining leaves depicted in Baxter’s British Flowering Plants. Mr. Ruskin’s letter said the next step was to lay the tracing paper over the book and see how accurate she’d managed to be. She was carefully lining up her sketch with the printed one beneath it when Mr. Jenkins came into the room.
“Lady Bentley to see you, Miss Carter,” he announced.
Mariah instantly stood and curtsied as her aunt swept in behind Mr. Jenkins.
“Miss Car— Mariah,” Aunt Bentley said with a curt nod. “I’m actually here to speak to Mr. Eustace Miller about Charles. Do you know when he will be home?”
Mariah shook her head. “I’m sorry, Aunt Bentley. He went out visiting with Mrs. Miller, and I’m not sure when they’ll be back. Is there anything I can assist you with?”
Aunt Bentley’s hat was slightly crooked, and her shawl barely clung to one arm. Mariah had never seen her aunt look anything but polished and felt alarmed by her disarray. She led Aunt Bentley to a sofa.
“Shall I call for tea?” Mariah asked.
“No tea,” Aunt Bentley said. “Tea will not make one drop of difference.”
“What are you hoping to talk to Mr. Miller about?”
“Charles,” Aunt Bentley said, taking her handkerchief out and sniffing into it.
“Has his sickness returned?” Mariah asked anxiously.
“No, no,” Aunt Bentley said with a wave of her hand. “Worse! He has proved to be just as headstrong and foolish as my sister, with no thought about his adopted family and the sacrifices we’ve made for him. Only about what he wants.”
Mariah stiffened at the mention of her mother but attempted to soothe her upset aunt. “What does he want?”
“To be a gentleman farmer, of all things,” Aunt Bentley said reproachfully. “After all my efforts to ensure his place in his grandfather’s company and in the highest society, he plans to forsake it all.”
“Sometimes we have to love people for who they are and not for who we want them to be.”
“He was my ward. He inherited my husband’s estate. And all my plans for his future will come to naught,” Aunt Bentley continued, as if she had not heard Mariah at all.
“Do you wish for his happiness?”
Aunt Bentley scoffed. “His happiness? He refuses to offer for Miss Penderton-Simpson. He says he has no regard for her. What more could he possibly desire? She has birth, beauty, breeding, and is an heiress to add to the bargain.”
“Miss Penderton-Simpson is very lovely,” Mariah agreed, “but we can’t always help our feelings. And if he has no regard for her, you would not, I’m sure, wish for him to marry without some affection.”
“He has no affection for me, it seems.”
Mariah moved closer to her aunt on the sofa and cautiously put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders.
“I’m sure Charles has great affection for you,” she said carefully. “You were more than just his guardian: You’re the only mother he’s ever known.”
Aunt Bentley shook her head vigorously. “Just as selfish as my sister. Just as foolish.”
Mariah removed her arm from around her aunt and clenched her hands tightly in her lap.
“Your sister—my mother—is dead. You lost the opportunity to spend the last year of her life with her because you didn’t agree with her choices. If you don’t wish to lose Charles, too, I suggest that you support him and stop worrying what society may or may not think about it.”
“You know nothing of society,” Aunt Bentley admonished. “You’re little more than a child.”
“Charles is no longer your ward. He’s a grown man now and is capable of making his own decisions. If you want his love, respect him,” Mariah said, standing up. “I’ll let Mr. and Mrs. Miller know that you called. Is there any other message you would like to leave? I would be happy to relay it for you.”
Aunt Bentley stood, a look of disbelief on her face. She, Lady Bentley, a baroness, was being dismissed by her niece, the daughter of a wayward sister and a navy nobody.
“No message.”
Mariah picked up the other side of her aunt’s shawl that was askew and placed it gently back over her shoulder. Aunt Bentley gave a stiff nod and left the room.
She sat back at the table and looked at her leaf sketch, but her mind was on Charles. Absentmindedly she closed the book. She picked up one of her letters from Mr. Ruskin and turned over the last page, finding her sketch of Charles. She traced the lines of his face with her finger, lingering on the curve of his lips.
“You look very serious this morning, Mariah,” Sophie remarked as she slouched down on the settee.
“I’m writing a letter to Mr. Ellis,” Mariah said with a little sniff. “I told him that we were well and where we’re staying. I thought perhaps we might include small gifts for the children. I can do it myself, if you’d rather not.”
“Of course, I would be happy to purchase gifts for them,” Sophie said. She looked at her beautiful yellow dress and delicate kid boots, remembering when she had arrived in London with her worn gray dress and one dilapidated pair of boots. “New material for clothes, too. And something nice for Mrs. Ellis … maybe some cloth for a new dress.”
“That is kind of you,” Mariah said, not even attempting to hide her knowing smile. “I thought you were finished with Mrs. Ellis.”
Sophie smiled ruefully in return. “I suppose we’re never truly finished with our pasts—they follow us wherever we go, like phantoms. Whoever we become is because of who we once were. I can’t love Mrs. Ellis, but I can be grateful to her for taking us in when no one else did. Her life hasn’t been an easy one, and perhaps if the world showed her a little more kindness, she would be more kind. She certainly couldn’t be any meaner.”
“Sophie!” Mariah scolded with a laugh. “Shall we go?”
Sophie and Mariah left the sitting room to find Jenkins standing at attention in the hall.
“Mr. Jenkins, always where I need you,” Sophie said. “Would you please call a carriage for us?”
“Yes, Miss Sophie.” He bowed deferentially and went about his task.
She and Mariah put on their hats and black lace mantilla shawls. Mr. Jenkins returned to escort them out the front door and open the door to the carriage—a privilege he never allowed a mere footman. Even if the footman would be accompanying them and he would not.
Mr. Pool, the third footman, trailed behind them like a puppy as the sisters ran their errands. He sat on the outside of the carriage and carried all their packages from the shops. Sophie selected six different pairs of children’s boots at a bazaar. Mariah chose several bolts of sturdy cloth at a shop next to it and material with blue flowers for Mrs. Ellis.
They were on their way back to the Millers’ house when Mariah touched Sophie’s arm. “Oh, look! There’s a toy shop. Could we stop here as well?”
“Yes, please,” Sophie said. She leaned her head out the carriage window and asked the driver, Mr. Winkler, to please stop at the toy shop. Winkler expertly maneuvered the carriage through the busy London street, and Mr. Pool opened the door for them. Sophie was about to follow Mariah into the toy shop when she spotted a well-dressed man placing a sign on an empty shop next door: FOR LETTING, SEE MR. HICKMAN, REGENT’S STREET 115.
Sophie walked up to the older gentleman, and he tipped his hat to her.
“Are you looking for a new tenant, sir?” she asked him.
“I am indeed,” he replied, tucking his thumbs into his striped waistcoat. “Mr. Edward Hickman’s the name.”
“How much?”
“For what?”
“To rent the shop for a year?” Sophie said, pointing to the sign on the door.
“One hundred pounds per annum,” the gentleman said.
“May I see the inside?” Sophie asked eagerly.
The gentleman raised his eyebrows. “Do you know someone who would be interested in letting it?”
“You’re looking at her.”
“You,” he said, his surprise obvious.
“Me.”
“Oh,” he said, eyeing her curiously. “Well, you are certainly dressed very stylishly, if I do say so myself. Are you a milliner or a haberdasher, miss?”
“Clockmaker and inventor,” Sophie replied with a smirk. “Shall we go inside?”
He nodded, pulling out the brass key and unlocking the door for her. Sophie walked into the poorly lit room, the only light coming from the single front window. The space was narrow, probably only ten feet wide, but at least twice that distance long. It was completely devoid of furniture, but she didn’t need to see tables or chairs to know what it could look like. She could use the money from Captain Trenton and build a row of shelves all along the east wall to display an assortment of clocks for sale. Then she could put a few worktables in the back area, a few serviceable chairs up front for customers, and her shop would be ready for business.
“I’ll take it,” Sophie said, holding out her hand. “One hundred pounds per year.”
The gentleman reached out his hand and shook hers firmly. “I’ll bring you the contract on Monday. What’s your name and address, miss?”
“Sophie Carter,” she said proudly, handing him her card with her name and address engraved on it. “And I’ll have a bank draft ready for you then, Mr. Hickman.”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Sophie Carter.”
“Might I lock it?” Sophie asked as she followed him outside the shop. He reached into his coat pocket and handed the brass key to her.
Sophie placed the key into the lock and turned it, laughing aloud. She was locking her very own shop!
“Thank you,” she said, and held out the key to Mr. Hickman.
He shook his head. “You can keep it. It’s your shop now, after all.”
She could have embraced him, but she restricted herself to shaking his hand warmly with both of hers.
“Sophie, there you are!” Mariah cried, hurrying over from where the carriage stood by the curb. “I was worried.”
Mr. Hickman bowed yet again to Sophie and sauntered down the street, whistling.
“Who was that man?”
“My landlord,” Sophie said impishly, hooking her arm through Mariah’s. “You’re looking at the new proprietor of this shop.”
Mariah let out a sound that was halfway between a shriek and a laugh. “I am so happy for you,” she said, and squeezed Sophie tighter than a corset.
“If you don’t strangle me before I can open it.”
Mariah released Sophie but took her hands, and the sisters jumped up and down together, squealing and laughing. Mr. Pool waited patiently by the carriage until their celebrating was over to open the door for them.
“What are you going to name your shop?”
Sophie shrugged and climbed into the carriage after her sister. “I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll think of something spectacular.”
“And I’ll paint the name on the front window,” Mariah promised.
They spent the rest of the ride back to the Millers’ trying to come up with the perfect name for the shop.
As Mr. Pool helped them out of the carriage in front of the house, Ethan walked up to them with his hat in hand, his own carriage right behind theirs. “Out starting a revolution?” he asked.
“Only a bit of shopping,” Sophie replied. “And I found myself the perfect shop.”
Mariah and then Mr. Pool passed by them, the footman’s arms full of brown paper packages.
“For shopping?” Ethan asked.
“No, no!” she said excitedly, pulling the brass key from her pocket and waving it in the air. “I saw a small shop for rent just a few streets away from here. I talked to the owner, and it’s mine for the next year!”
“Sophie, you’re a genius,” Ethan said, grabbing her waist and spinning her around.
Her stomach flipped in delight. Even when her feet touched the pavement again, she still felt like she was flying.
“You’re brilliant,” Ethan said. “Now you can take on your own apprentices in your very own office.”
“Shop,” Sophie corrected.
“Office-shop,” he said, grinning. “Oh, Sophie, I’m so delighted for you. When I said that I’ll always support you and your dreams, I meant it. My only request is that you allow me to manufacture your notification clock when it’s ready for production.”
Sophie felt surely her heart would burst. “If we weren’t on a public street, I would kiss you.”
“I daresay we can remedy that problem.”
Sophie laid her head against his shoulder. “I really should be getting dressed for the party.”
“Must you dress this very moment?” Ethan asked as they walked through the front door of the house, hand in arm. “I wanted to give you a gift before the party.”
“A gift?” Sophie repeated in surprise.
“I believe it’s customary for a gentleman to present a token of affection to the lady he loves—” Ethan’s face suddenly flared a brilliant shade of crimson. “I mean … rather, um … to the lady with whom he is, um … acquainted in a f-friendly manner.”
The lady he loves.
Since Sophie had told him to slow down, Ethan had carefully avoided any words of affection. But he had just said that he loved her. Loved her. And she didn’t feel sick or scared. She felt wonderful. All warm inside as if she’d drank a whole cup of hot chocolate in one swallow.
“All right then,” Sophie said, trying not to smile. “If I ever go into battle again as Joan of Arc, I suppose I’ll need a token of your affection. But I do hope it doesn’t clash with my armor.”
“It won’t,” Ethan assured her with a smile and a shake of his head.
He led her to the back of the house and outside into the small rose garden. The air was thick and sweet. The red blooms were as large as her fist, and the trees gently swayed in the summer breeze.
“Close your eyes,” Ethan said.
Sophie dutifully shut them—mostly.
“You’re peeking.”
She closed her eyelids all the way.
“Now open your eyes.”
When Sophie looked, Ethan was holding a velvet box. He flipped it open with his thumb; inside was an oval locket with a cluster of diamonds on the front that seemed to capture all the light in the garden in little rainbows. He opened the locket and on one side was a painted miniature of Mariah and on the other, Sophie.
She subconsciously touched her bare neck, struck speechless. The necklace was more spectacular and beautiful than anything she’d ever imagined, but it was the paintings that meant the world to her. In the locket, she and her sister would always be together.
“You said that you had no heirlooms from your mother, so I hired your sister to paint these miniatures. Hopefully, something that you can pass on someday,” Ethan said, sounding nervous and unsure. “And I noticed that you touch your neck sometimes at parties and I thought perhaps you were wishing for a necklace … If you don’t like it, I can always get you a nice set of diamond-studded clockworking tools instead.”
Sophie took the velvet box from his hands and examined the little paintings, before closing the locket and seeing the sparkling white jewels. “I was disappointed in the Koh-i-noor diamond because it was so drab, and you assured me that well-cut diamonds do sparkle.”
“I hope these diamonds are sparkly enough for you.”
“They’re perfectly sparkly … and I love what is inside of them even more. Thank you,” Sophie whispered, before closing the velvet box and throwing her arms around him. She covered Ethan’s face in kisses—his chin, his cheek, his eyes, his ears. He laughed, and Sophie pulled his head down and pressed her lips hard against his. Ethan put his hands through Sophie’s hair and then slowly down her back, pressing her closer to him—for Sophie, they could never be close enough. She locked her fingers around his neck and kissed him again.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Ethan gently brushed a curl from her face. “And I love you.”