The Arrangement by Mary Balogh
15
When Sophia half awoke and tried to snuggle back into the warmth that had been next to her all night, she discovered only a cool emptiness. She woke all the way up and opened her eyes.
He was gone. There was daylight, but it had an early look to it. She lifted her head and peered at the clock. A quarter past six. She grimaced and lay back down.
Wherever—?
But she knew the answer. He had gone down to the cellar to exercise. Why it had to be the cellar when there must be any number of unused rooms aboveground she did not know, but he had told her that was where he always went.
She considered closing her eyes and drifting back to sleep. But now that she was awake her stomach churned slightly. Not with hunger. Indeed, she could not even think of breakfast yet. But there was a new life to be lived out there beyond their private apartments, and she had committed herself to living it rather than to creeping into a corner and observing it through a satirical eye.
She pushed back the bedcovers and sat up on the edge of the bed—and shivered in the early morning chill. Sleeping without even a nightgown was fine until there was nothing to cover one at all.
She pulled on her sadly creased nightgown, which had been discarded beside the bed again, and crossed the room to pull back the curtains from the one long window.
It looked southwest. She could see the stable block over to one side and a wide expanse of lawn dotted with ancient trees. It sloped away gradually to the lake. Centered in the view was the little island in the middle and its temple folly. The other side of the lake was dense with trees, lushly green at the moment. They must be a sight to behold in the autumn.
The lake, large though it was, must be man made. It had been very carefully positioned, as had the island and temple, to create just this view from the master bedchamber.
Sophia was smitten with a sudden and unexpected wave of grief for her husband, who would never see it.
On a more practical note, though, how could he ever get to that lake unless someone took him? The lawn undulated in rises and dips that were pleasing to the eye and even to someone strolling over it, she guessed, provided that person could see.
She frowned and considered the problem.
The window in the other bedchamber, nominally hers, must look in the other direction, southeast across the formal part of the park, the parterres and the topiary garden. She would look through it sometime, but right now there was something else she wanted to do. She wanted to go and see Vincent and find out what sort of exercises he did. She had no idea where the cellar was. She had no idea where almost anywhere was, but there was no point in feeling daunted. She would find out. She had a tongue, and it struck her that the servants here would not simply look through her as though she did not even exist. She was Viscountess Darleigh, their mistress.
Somehow it was not a reassuring thought.
She did not summon Rosina to help her dress. The idea seemed rather absurd when she had been dressing herself all her life. Besides, it was still not quite half past six. She washed her hands and face in last night’s cold water, put on one of her new ready-made dresses without stays, and pulled a brush through her hair.
The cellar was beside the butler’s pantry in the kitchen area. It was easy to find. She merely walked along to the main hall and startled a footman, who was unbolting the front doors, and he took her himself and showed her the cellar door.
“Shall I call his lordship up, my lady?” he asked her.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I do not want to disturb him.”
The staircase was very dark, but there was light below. Sophia crept down a few of the stairs until she could see all the way down and then sat on one of them, hugging her knees.
Vincent and Mr. Fisk were down there, in a large, square room. In the light of three lamps she could see that there was an inner room, its walls lined with shelves and stacked with bottles. It was the wine cellar, of course, by the butler’s pantry.
The lamps were presumably for Mr. Fisk’s use. The horrible thought struck Sophia that a place like this, which must be totally dark without the lamps, would be no different to Vincent than the light-filled drawing room above. For a moment her breathing quickened and she feared she might swoon. It was no wonder he suffered bouts of panic.
He was stripped to the waist and barefoot—they both were, in fact. All he was wearing was a pair of tight, form-fitting breeches. He was lying on his back on a mat on the floor, his feet hooked beneath the bar of a bench, his hands clasped behind his head, and he was sitting up and lying back down in quick succession, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling as he exerted himself, and glistening with sweat.
Mr. Fisk was skipping with a rope, increasing and decreasing the speed, crossing the rope in front of him, and never getting tangled up in it.
Sophia counted fifty-six sit-up exercises before Vincent stopped—and he had started before she came down. How could he possibly…
“Ho,” he said, his voice breathless, “I am out of practice, Martin. I can manage only eighty today.”
Mr. Fisk grunted and set aside his rope. “The bar next, is it? Twenty-five repetitions?”
“Slave driver,” Vincent said, getting to his feet.
“Weakling.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows, but Vincent just laughed.
“Twenty-six,” he said. “Just to prove a point.”
There was a metal bar suspended horizontally from the ceiling. Mr. Fisk led Vincent to it, and he reached his hands under and over it, gripped it tightly, and hauled himself up until his chin was level with the bar. He lowered himself without touching his feet to the floor and raised himself again—twenty-six times.
It looked like sheer torture.
His ribs and abdomen were like a washboard, Sophia thought. His shoulder and arm muscles bulged. His legs were together, feet pointed.
He was not a large man. He was neither as tall nor as broad as his valet, but he was fit and beautifully proportioned and gloriously masculine.
Sophia lowered her chin to her knees.
“You have made your point,” Mr. Fisk was saying. “No weights today, though. I’ve worn them out myself, anyway. Have you had enough?”
“Bring out the pads,” Vincent said. “I’ll see if I can hurt you through them today.”
Mr. Fisk snorted and said something rude that turned Sophia’s cheeks warm. He picked up two large leather pads, fitted them over his arms, and held them up in front of himself as a sort of shield. Vincent reached out and touched them, felt the tops and the outer edges. Then he curled his hands into fists and took a fighter’s stance. He punched one of Mr. Fisk’s padded arms with his right hand.
It was almost like watching a dance. Mr. Fisk moved nimbly, ducking and weaving, while Vincent danced on light feet, jabbing with his left hand, occasionally punching hard with his right. Some of his punches missed altogether, but his valet grunted as one jab got past his guard and connected with his shoulder. Then he laughed.
“I got you that time, Martin,” Vincent said. “Admit it.”
“A chicken punch,” Mr. Fisk said, and Vincent pummeled the padded arms, moving in close, using both fists hard.
“Just say when you have had enough,” he said, panting. “I would not want to leave you with too many bruises. Or crack a rib or two. I might be accused of abusing my servants.”
He laughed and Mr. Fisk laughed too and swore foully—before looking up and seeing her despite the darkness in which she sat.
“We have company,” he said, dropping his voice. “My lady?” He lowered his arms and ducked out of sight.
“Sophie?” Vincent turned unerringly to the staircase, his eyebrows raised.
“Oh.” She scrambled to her feet, horribly chagrined. “I am so sorry to disturb you. I was curious.”
She had intruded upon a purely masculine domain, she realized too late.
He had found his way to the foot of the stairs, one hand reaching out to touch the wall, and looked up.
“I did wake you after all, then, did I?” he asked. “Forgive me. I tried not to. How long have you been there?”
He started up toward her.
“I have been sitting and watching,” she said. “I ought not to have been. I ought to have gone away.” The words his valet had just spoken—not intended for a lady’s ears, of course—were still ringing in hers. She knew they were foul and profane—she had heard them back in her father’s day, though never from her father himself.
He stopped a few stairs below her. His hair was plastered to his head and hanging in wet curls along his neck. He was all sweaty. He ought not to have looked appealing but he did. Though truth to tell, she could hardly see him for the dark.
“We have finished for today,” he said.
“I am leaving,” she said at the same moment. “I am going to step outside and look around.”
“I’ll go and get bathed and dressed,” he said, “and join you there. The family of one of the scullery maids took in a stray cat a week or so ago but does not know what to do with it, since they already have several of their own. He is a tabby, a bit on the thin and scruffy side, a year or two old, probably not a great beauty.”
“Oh,” she said, “you asked already?”
“And the cook’s brother, one of the tenant farmers,” he said, “has a litter of collies. Their mother is a good sheepdog, and the father is one too. They are recently weaned, and all but one of them are spoken for. Perhaps that means he is the runt of the litter, but she assured me he has all his limbs in the right places as well as his eyes and ears and bark.”
“And now they are all spoken for?” she asked him, clasping her hands to her bosom.
“And now they all are.”
She beamed at him.
“I do not want to come any closer to you, Sophie,” he said. “I reek. I can even smell myself.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you do. I am going.”
And she turned and left the cellar.
She was going to have a cat. A thin and scrawny tabby, which was not at all beautiful. She loved him already.
And he was going to have a dog. A sheepdog, which would guide him instead of sheep and give him back much of his freedom. She was sure it could be done.
She smiled at the thought, and the footman, the same one, who was back in the hall, smiled a little uncertainly back at her and opened the double doors when it was obvious to him that she wished to go outside. As though she could not have opened one of them for herself! No one had ever opened doors for her either at Aunt Mary’s or at Sir Clarence’s.
It was a fresh morning, she discovered, and she would probably be more comfortable wearing a cloak, but she did not want to go all the way back to her dressing room to get it. It did not occur to her to send the footman.
She stood at the top of the steps looking around. The park stretched in every direction, as far as her eye could see and beyond. It was designed for visual splendor and for the leisurely exercise and pleasure of those who could see where they were going. It had certainly not been designed for a blind man. More important, in the three years Vincent had been here, it had not been modified for a blind man’s use. Could it be?
She looked about with closer attention.
Vincent stood out on the top step, his cane in his right hand, Sophia’s cloak in his left. It was only half past seven or so. The rest of his family would not be up for a while yet.
Martin had been surly, a result of acute embarrassment, Vincent had realized.
“I am not wearing any more than you are,” he had said after the cellar door closed behind Sophia. “And she heard what I just said.”
“We were two men together with no expectation of being either seen or overheard by any woman,” Vincent had reminded him. “She will understand that. I will apologize for you.”
Martin had grunted as they left the cellar and had handed Vincent his cane before hurrying off ahead of him to make sure the bathwater had been brought to his dressing room.
“I am here.” It was Sophia’s voice. “In the parterre garden.”
Interestingly, she did not come hurrying toward him to help him find his way there too. Dash it, but he liked that.
He counted twelve steps down and then crossed the graveled terrace—ten medium strides or twelve shuffles. He did it in ten and felt the side of the stone urn, which, with its companion on the other side, formed the entrance to the formal flower gardens. There were no steps here. Nothing to fall down or collide with except the urns themselves.
“Oh, you have brought my cloak,” she said from close by. She took it from him. “Thank you. The air is a little brisk.” She slipped an arm through his when he offered it. “Do you wish to stroll or sit on the seat here?”
“Stroll,” he said and turned them to the right, feeling for the edge of the graveled walk with his cane. “The roses are blooming.”
“They smell lovely,” she said. “And there are so many colors, all of them beautiful. I cannot decide which is my favorite.”
“The yellow ones,” he said.
“Do you think?” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Sunshine,” he said. “To match you.”
“That is a very kind compliment,” she said.
“What?” he said. “No reference to mirrors and what they tell you when you look in them?”
“I am under orders,” she reminded him.
“And I was a very ferocious military officer,” he said. “Men jumped to my command even before I barked it out.”
They both laughed. Ah, yes, he liked having her here with him. Life felt—different.
His cane lost the edge of the path suddenly and discovered only loose soil ahead. A corner. He turned it and strolled south. She had not hauled him about the turn. Bless her heart.
“When you come outside on your own,” she said, “what are the bounds of the park?”
“The parterres,” he said, “and the topiary garden. I can negotiate them without breaking my neck or feeling as though I had wandered off the edge of the universe. I can find my way to the stables and back too, though I sometimes need my nose and the enticing smell of manure to keep me on course. I am not confined to the house.”
He sounded a bit defensive, he thought.
“Perhaps the dog will make the park larger for me after I have trained it,” he said, “so that I do not have to call upon you or Martin or my mother when I fancy walking farther afield.”
“You may call upon me anytime,” she told him. “But you should not need to. Has anyone thought of modifying the park?”
“Modifying?” They had reached another corner. He turned east. There was a bench just here, positioned to face back toward the house. “Shall we sit for a while?”
“Three more steps,” she said.
They sat, and he propped his cane beside him.
“If a graveled path or even a paved one was set out between the terrace and the lake,” she said, “and if a fence or a rail was constructed along it, you would be able to walk down there whenever you wished. Do you swim? Yes, of course you do. You used to swim in the river at Barton Coombs—at night. Have you swum here?”
“No,” he said, “though I have been out in a boat. Twice.”
“All your exercising is done in darkness, then,” she said.
“Yes. Always in darkness.”
“Oh.” She sounded mortified. “I am sorry. But I meant underground as opposed to rooms aboveground, where a window can be opened. Or, better yet, outdoors, where there are all the sounds and smells of nature and nothing but fresh air.”
“I walked and climbed and rode in the Lake District,” he reminded her. “And rowed. It all felt wonderful. Movement—forward movement—is so much more exhilarating than static exercises. We even galloped our horses once, Sophie. You cannot imagine how thrilling that felt. And you cannot imagine how I long to stride out and even run.”
He frowned at the tone of his own voice. He did not usually allow himself to sound wistful. People who pitied themselves were not particularly attractive to others.
“Oh,” she said, “how wonderful it must feel just to ride! To be on a horse’s back, up on top of the world, being borne along by all that power and beauty.”
There was wistfulness in her voice too.
“You have never ridden?” he asked her.
“Never,” she said. “But I scandalized Lady Trentham’s dressmaker by having a riding outfit made with breeches as well as a skirt. I thought perhaps you could teach me.”
“To ride? Astride?” He grinned at her. Who but Sophia would believe a blind man could teach her to ride? “Of course I can. And will.”
“And the path to the lake?” she said. “It will not spoil the look of the park, I assure you. Indeed, if it bends with the undulations of the lawn, it will look very attractive. And with a wrought iron rail, it will be elegant. Will you have it built?”
How freeing it would be to be able to walk all the way to the lake and back on his own if he wished. Why had no one thought of such a thing before? Why had he not thought of it?
“I will,” he said. “I will be seeing my steward this morning. I need to have a talk with him. Many talks, in fact. I need to take more of an active hand in the running of my estate even if the bulk of the work will still be his. I’ll mention the path and rail and give the order for it to be started.”
“I am to spend the morning with your mother,” she told him. “We are to meet with the housekeeper and see the whole house and…” Her voice trailed away.
He searched for her hand, found it, and held it.
“My mother will come to love you, Sophie,” he said. “She will want to do it for my sake, but she will end up doing it for yours. You must not worry. Please do not. I am not sure she has ever truly enjoyed being mistress here. She was happy at Covington House. She talks about it frequently. All her dearest friends are at Barton Coombs. She came here because she thought I needed her. And she was right. I did. But she will be quite relieved to turn over her responsibilities.”
“Will she?”
“Feeling overwhelmed?” he asked.
“We are sitting here,” she said, “and I can see the house. It is … vast. And behind us is the village, and all around us are neighbors who must be called upon and conversed with and invited here. And I am looking over at the state apartments and remembering that there used to be grand entertainments and balls there and that we are now master and mistress here. And I am thinking that we really ought to put on some of those entertainments again, and I am—I do not rightly know what I am.”
“Overwhelmed.” He squeezed her hand. “I know the feeling. But everything does not have to be done in a day, you know. Or even a week or a month. Shall we pay our first visit this afternoon? Just one? To the vicarage, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Very well. Perhaps the vicar and his wife are as kind as Mr. and Mrs. Parsons.”
“I have met them,” he told her. “They are amiable.”
He squeezed her hand once more and released it.
“Shall we go in for breakfast?” he suggested. “Ah, and I promised to apologize abjectly on Martin’s behalf—both for his appearance this morning and for his particular choice of vocabulary in your hearing.”
“It looked to me,” she said, “as if you were both thoroughly enjoying yourselves.”
“Oh, we were,” he assured her. “We always do. There are worse parts of one’s body to lose, Sophie, than one’s eyes.”
Perhaps it was even true. He thought of Ben Harper and the rages he had sometimes been unable to control during those years at Penderris Hall because his legs were useless and unwilling to obey his commands.
He stood and picked up his cane and offered his arm.
“You may inform Mr. Fisk that he is forgiven,” she said, “and you will beg his pardon from me, if you will, for I ought not to have been there. I will not go again. I will respect your privacy and his. You may assure him of that.”
Trust Sophia to be concerned about the feelings—and privacy—of a servant. For that was what Martin was officially, though in reality he was Vincent’s dearest friend. Or coequal with the Survivors, perhaps, though he spent considerably more time with Martin than he did with them.
