The Arrangement by Mary Balogh

17

For several minutes Vincent knew what a bird or a wild animal must feel like when it escaped from its cage. He expended all his pent-up energy on the exercise, reveling in his freedom and the power of his own muscles and the cool wonder of the water.

It was a euphoria that did not last, of course. For even though at first even the absence of Martin added to his exuberance, it did not take him long to realize how reckless he had been.

Where was he exactly? How was he to get back to the island? He had no idea how far he had swum or in which direction.

He stopped swimming and trod water. He could not feel the bottom. The temptation was to panic. But panic was not going to do him any good, and this was not like the familiar attacks that assaulted him out of nowhere and for no discernible reason. This was a potential panic based upon reality. It was something under his control.

The comforting thought flashed through his mind that at worst he could swim until he collided with a bank. He would not know where on the bank he was, but he could at least climb out and wait for someone to find him. It was not as though no one knew whereabouts he was.

But poor Sophia would be stranded on the island.

He would feel an idiot—at the very least.

“I am here,” Sophia’s voice called from what seemed a considerable distance away.

The trouble was that outdoors it was not so easy to know exactly where a voice was coming from, especially when it was some distance away.

“Here,” she yelled.

He chose a direction and swam.

“To your left,” she called and he adjusted his course.

It took a while. But she guided him in with a voice that gradually diminished from a yell to a volume not far above a speaking voice.

“You ought to be able to touch the bottom now,” she said at last. “Wade to your left. I am here.”

She did not come to get him. He was thankful for that.

Had he frightened her? He would wager he had.

When his feet were on firm, dry ground, she threw a towel about his shoulders.

“Oh, I do look forward to the day when I can swim even half as well as you,” she said. “It must be the loveliest feeling in the world.”

And yet there was a slight tremor in her voice.

“Thank you for guiding me in,” he said. “Without you, I might have landed on the far bank and wandered off to the most distant corner of the park.”

“I did not fancy rowing myself home,” she said. “Though it is actually lovely back there, Vincent. I thought there were only trees beyond the lake, but they must have been planted for pictorial effect, so that they would reflect in the water. Beyond them are more lawns and an alley and summerhouse. There is more space than anyone would know what to do with. Though I have an idea.”

There was still a tremor in her voice. She knew he had been in potential trouble. And she could neither have come to his rescue nor run for help.

“Oh?” he said as he toweled himself dry. “What?”

“I am not going to tell you,” she said. “It is a secret. A surprise. Maybe just foolishness, though I think it can be done.”

“I hate surprises when I have to wait to know what they are,” he told her.

She laughed. She had sat down on the grass, he realized. He spread his towel and stretched out beside her.

“I am sorry, Sophie,” he said after a minute or two.

“Sorry?”

“For causing you anxiety,” he said. “For forcing you to keep an eagle eye on me while I was out there frolicking. It was irresponsible of me. It will not happen again.”

“Oh, you must not make such promises,” she said. “You may feel obliged to keep them. I know just how you felt.”

“Do you?” He turned his head her way.

“Some people climb impossible mountains,” she said. “Some people go exploring impossible places. And they do it for no better reason than that they simply cannot ignore the challenge of danger or of attempting the seemingly impossible. Sometimes you cannot resist the urge to be free of your sightlessness or at least to push it to its limits.”

“Perhaps,” he said meekly, “I simply wanted to swim.”

“Oh. So much for my fine speech.” She laughed.

Martin would not have made excuses for him. He would have called him a string of names, none of them complimentary—and he would have meant every one of them.

He felt good after the exercise, though—a different sort of good from what he always felt after a session in the cellar. And he felt drowsy. He could smell grass and water. Birds were singing at a distance, probably among the trees on the far bank. There were insects chirping and whirring closer at hand. Somewhere a bee droned.

Life at its sweetest.

Fingers, warm and feather light, moved damp hair back from his forehead. He lay very still until they were gone again. She was sitting rather than lying beside him. She must be looking down at him.

Marrying her had been a good move, he realized. He was always able to relax with her. He enjoyed their conversations. He loved her humor. He was comfortable with her. He liked her. He believed she liked him. He enjoyed having sex with her.

How foolish they had been to imagine that dreams conceived when they were both single and none too happy would survive a marriage that was bringing them a great deal of contentment.

He hoped those dreams were well and truly dead and would never be referred to again.

He turned his head her way and reached out a hand. It encountered her bare knees, and he realized that she was kneeling up beside him and looking down at him.

Why?

“Sophie,” he said.

She took his hand in both of hers.

Something blocked out the sunshine on his face and she kissed him.

If there was a sweeter mouth to kiss than Sophia’s, he could not imagine it. He wound his arms about her, and she collapsed down half over him and spread her hands on his shoulders. They kissed warmly, lazily for a while, their tongues exploring, their teeth gently nipping. Enjoying each other.

“Mm,” he said.

“Mm,” she agreed.

“I suppose,” he said, “every gardener in my employ and a few of the indoor servants for good measure are lined up about the perimeter of the lake enjoying the show?”

“Not a single one,” she said. “They would have to hack their way through the jungle across from us and we have the folly behind us.”

“We are quite private, then?”

“Yes.” Her lips were touching his. “Quite private.”

He reached down to remove his drawers, but she was kneeling up beside him again, and her fingers went beneath the band and pulled them downward for him. He lifted his hips, and she slid them all the way off.

When had she grown so bold?

She bent over him and kissed his navel. She moved her lips upward, kissing him as she went until she kissed his lips again.

Mm indeed!

“The ground would not make a soft mattress for your back, Sophie,” he said. “Come on top of me.”

He was very unadventurous, he realized with a little twinge of shame. Their lovemaking had never seemed routine or monotonous. Every encounter had been different from every other. Yet she had always lain on her back. He had always come on top of her. He would never win any prizes as one of the world’s most innovative lovers.

He drew her over him, and she lay on him, small and sweetly warm and smelling of lake water and summer heat. He kissed her again and moved his hands down over her bottom to grasp her upper thighs and spread her legs on either side of his own. Her shift was not a long one. She wore nothing beneath.

She bent her knees and raised herself onto them. She lifted her body too so that she was kneeling astride him.

He felt rather as if someone must have dropped a few more logs onto the sun to make its fire blaze higher. He felt as if he had relinquished some control, and he hardened into further arousal, if that was possible. He bent his own knees and slid his feet up the grass. He set his hands on her hips to position her.

But she was already touching him, the fingers of both hands moving over him so lightly that he thought he might well go mad. He tipped back his chin, pressed his head into the grass, and let her lead the way.

She drew him into position against herself, and she came down onto him in one firm, smooth motion. He almost disgraced himself and came in her without any further ado.

She made a low sound deep in her throat.

She lifted herself off almost to the brink and came down again—and repeated and repeated the motion until she was riding him with firm, sure rhythm. She was working inner muscles into it too, and after a few moments she rotated her hips in time with the ride.

This was Sophie?

If he ignored the near pain of being so fully aroused, and he did ignore it for a while, the pleasure was exquisite. She was hot and wet and pulsing about him.

He pushed into her descents and withdrew to her ascents and matched her move for move until he felt her break rhythm, felt that she was reaching for something she did not know or understand. He grasped her hips more firmly and drove upward and withdrew and drove and held. She tensed and cried out and came all to pieces about him. And he drove again with reckless energy until he followed her into that glorious state of sexual release.

She was still up on her knees. He moved his hands to her waist and brought her down to lie on top of him. He straightened her legs on either side of his. He threaded his fingers through her hair and held one side of her face against his shoulder.

Good God!

“Happy?” he asked her.

“Mm,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

He rather believed they had both dozed off when he woke up to feel less than comfortable.

“Sophie?”

“Mm?”

“We are horribly hot and sweaty, are we not?” he said.

They were quite slick with wetness. Even her shift was clammy.

“Mm.”

“Up, then, woman,” he said, “and lead me to water.”

He splashed her when they were waist deep, and she splashed him back. She had the advantage, of course, because she could see what she was aiming at. On the other hand, he was able to swim beneath the water and clip her behind the knees so that she fell under and came up sputtering.

He slapped her on the back and wrapped an arm about her shoulders.

“Do you plan to survive?” he asked her.

“If I can ever stop coughing,” she said, and coughed again. “Did I swallow the whole lake?”

“I can’t tell,” he said. “I can’t see.”

“But you can feel.” And her left foot got him behind his own knees when he was least expecting it, and he made the personal discovery that she had not, in fact, swallowed the whole of the lake.

She was laughing—really quite gleefully—instead of commiserating when he came up.

Miss Debbins was quite a miracle worker. After two music lessons and an hour a day of practice between times, Sophia was able to make sense of the lines and symbols and little notes with their variously feathered tails on a sheet of music. More important, she was able to reproduce the sounds of those notes on the keyboard of the pianoforte and even play with two hands. That seemed impossible to her at first, when each hand was expected to play something different, but it was possible even though she was playing but the simplest of exercises.

Moreover, Miss Debbins had the patience to help Vincent improve on the harp to the point at which he could play some simple melodies without making a single mistake.

The playing of music would never be her first love, though, Sophia soon realized. She persevered because she could and because she was so lacking in the accomplishments expected of any lady. And because a musical instrument created sound, lovely, harmonious sound if it was played properly, and sound was of such importance to her husband.

Her first love could never bring him joy, except that he did enjoy her talking about it. Her first love would always be sketching. Miss Debbins had brought back with her from her brother’s house a younger widowed sister, who was intending to live permanently with her. And Agnes Keeping was a painter. She worked primarily with watercolors, and her favored subject matter was wildflowers. Sophia found her work quite exquisite, and Agnes marveled over Sophia’s caricatures and laughed with delight over her story illustrations, especially when she read the stories to go with them. Sophia was careful to explain that the stories themselves were joint efforts with Vincent, except for the original dragon and mouse story, for which he was the sole author.

“What a gift you and your husband have,” Agnes said. “It is actually a shame that only Lord Darleigh’s nieces and nephews ever see these pictures and hear these stories. And they will be returning to their own homes within the week, you say? These little books of yours ought to be published.”

Sophia laughed, pleased.

“I have a cousin,” Agnes said. “Well, actually he is my late husband’s cousin. He lives in London. He— Well. I will write to him, with your permission. May I?”

“Of course.” Sophia closed her books. Agnes had not explained why the cousin might be interested in them, and she did not ask. She left the original Bertha and Dan story with Agnes when she returned home.

Agnes became her first real friend.

And the ladies of the sewing group became her first friendly acquaintances even though Sophia felt quite intimidated by the fact that they all, without exception, were far finer needlewomen than she. Actually, though, it seemed to her that that very fact endeared her to them, for they were all eager to help her and teach her and praise her efforts, and she did indeed improve under their expert guidance. She even started to enjoy plying her needle.

Vincent had been right in what he had said that afternoon when they had rowed to the island, she came to realize. Everyone needed friends of their own sex.

He had started to make definite friends among their neighbors. Mr. Harrison, a married gentleman no more than a few years older than Vincent—his wife was a member of the sewing circle—took him fishing one day with a few other gentlemen, and somehow they all devised a way for him to fish quite effectively. And Mr. Harrison had started to come to the house every few days to read the papers to Vincent, and the two of them would sit afterward, discussing politics and economics.

It was not, however, as if she and Vincent had drifted apart. They often sat alone together in their private sitting room in the late evenings, and they sometimes walked out together or practiced together in the music room. Once they went riding together, though they were not alone that time. The head groom hovered near Sophia, and Mr. Fisk rode beside Vincent. It was a lovely memory, though, because Vincent had been happy and carefree, and she had been exhilarated by her own daring, even though Vincent had told her if they crawled any more slowly they would be moving backward.

Sophia was returning on foot one afternoon from a sewing session when she saw Mr. Fisk striding alone from the stables toward the house. He had probably been watching the training session with Shep back in the paddocks. Mr. Croft was coming over every day now that the dog was nearly trained, and he and Vincent were growing more and more accustomed to each other and more and more able to move about as one harmonious unit. The only thing Sophia had found a trifle disappointing at first was Mr. Croft’s firm directive that the dog was never to be considered a family pet, that he was never to be petted by anyone except Vincent or encouraged to follow anyone about or to sit with anyone except him.

It made perfect sense, of course. If the dog was easily distracted, then he could not be trusted to be Vincent’s eyes at all times and under all circumstances.

Mr. Fisk nodded his head in Sophia’s direction and would have hurried into the house before she came up to him.

“Mr. Fisk,” she called. “Please wait.”

She never knew if he liked her or not. She was a bit frightened of him, if the truth were told, though not in any physical sense. He would never harm her or talk disrespectfully to her. But old habits of mind did not die easily. Of course, he was deeply attached to Vincent, and he had definitely not thought her a worthy bride for his master and friend at first. She did not know if he still felt that way. It did not matter—except that, of course, it did.

He raised his eyebrows and stopped walking.

“It is going well?” she asked. “With Shep?”

“Croft thinks his job here is at an end, my lady,” he said. “His lordship went all the way to the lake and back just now without anyone except the dog and without touching the handrail even once.”

“The handrail is unnecessary, then?” she asked him.

“No, my lady,” he said. “Anything that can help his lordship to a greater bit of freedom is worth having, and it is not wise for him to depend fully upon just one person or thing. People can die. So can dogs. Fences can fall down.”

“I wanted to ask your advice,” she said.

He looked at her a little warily.

“Now that the path has been finished,” she said, “work will soon begin on clearing the wilderness walk and making it safe for my husband and fragrant too for his pleasure. The head gardener has suggested planting herbs as well as suitable trees and shrubbery. But I have another scheme in my head that may be utterly foolish and impractical. Anyone who hears it may well laugh at me. But you will know if it is foolish.”

She bit her lower lip, but he said nothing. He just looked steadily back at her. He was intimidatingly large and broad.

“There is nothing much inside the wall along the east side of the park,” she said. “Just grass, really, for the full two-mile stretch. And on the south side, the woods do not stretch all the way to the east wall. There is at least half a mile of bare land. In the north too the hills do not extend back all the way to the wall. There is a wide band of level land behind them. Altogether, you could walk along inside the wall, starting in the south, all the way around to the northwest corner without meeting any significant obstacle. That is almost five miles.”

She knew. She had walked the whole distance one drizzly afternoon when Vincent was busy with his steward and none of his sisters fancied exercise in the outdoors.

“My lady?” He was looking mystified.

“Race tracks curve, do they not?” she asked him. “When horses race, they do not usually run a straight course from start to finish. They would run around curves without guidance, would they not, if none was given? Rather than keep running straight ahead, I mean, and crashing into the guard rail.”

“If the curve was gentle enough.” He was frowning. “Is that what you are thinking of, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said. “Is it possible, do you think, Mr. Fisk? He could ride there without danger and for a considerable distance. He could even gallop. And if there is a rail on either side of the course, as there would have to be, he could run there too. He could run five miles if he wanted without stopping. Ten if he ran both ways.”

He was looking full into her face, full into her eyes. She could not read his expression. He was a typical servant in that way.

“Is it a foolish idea?” She bit her lip again.

“Have you asked him?” he wanted to know.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“The gardeners could not do it on their own,” he said, frowning. “A whole lot more workers would have to be hired. It would cost a fortune.”

“He has a fortune.”

For a moment his lips twitched and he almost smiled.

He surprised her then.

“You love him?” he asked, his voice abrupt, even harsh.

It was an impertinent question, but it did not occur to her to reprimand him or even feel offended. She opened her mouth to reply and closed it again.

“He is my husband, Mr. Fisk,” she said.

He nodded.

“It sounds possible to me,” he said. “But what do I know? It also sounds like a huge project. It would be a dream come true for him, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

She turned sharply in the direction of the stables, leaving him standing there, staring after her. She felt flustered. He would think her an idiot. But—

It would be a dream come true for him, though, wouldn’t it?

The training session was over, it seemed. Vincent and Mr. Croft were standing at the far side of the stable block, talking. Shep, the black and white sheepdog, was sitting quiet but alert beside Vincent, who held the short leash in his hand. Mr. Croft was just out of sight beyond the buildings.

“…with its handrail was all your lady’s idea,” he was saying. “As well as the dog. And now the wilderness walk to be smoothed out and railed for you too?”

“I am very fortunate,” Vincent said as Sophia slowed her footsteps, smiling.

“You have a whole houseful of ladies to look after your every need,” Mr. Croft said. “What man would not envy you, my lord?” He laughed heartily.

“Yes.” Vincent laughed with him. “Always women to look after me. And now my wife too. But gradually I am freeing myself. Or, to be fair, my wife is devising ways to free me.”

And then Sophia wished she had not slowed down in order to hear good things about herself.

And now my wife too.

But gradually I am freeing myself.

He had not said he resented her. Quite the contrary. He had given her credit for helping give him more freedom of movement.

And she had done it deliberately. At the start, she had set out to repay him for all he had done for her by finding ways to make his blindness less irksome.

Had she succeeded all too well?

Oh, she did not want to think about that wretched arrangement they had made. And he had told her not to. But that did not mean it did not exist, did it? He very obviously still longed for freedom.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Mr. Croft said as she came into sight. He raised his hat to her and smiled and inclined his head.

Vincent turned his face to her and smiled warmly.

“Sophie?” he said. “Did you enjoy your sewing group?”

“I did,” she told him. “Julia Stockwell brought her new baby, and we spent as much time cooing over her as we did sewing. Why do babies always have that effect upon people, do you think? Is it nature’s way of ensuring that they are never neglected? How do you do, Mr. Croft? Has Mrs. Croft recovered from her scalded hand?”

“The marks are still there, my lady,” he told her, “but the worst of the pain seems to have gone. Thank you. I shall tell her you asked. I think you had a winning idea here, my lady. This dog took my lord all the way to the lake and back just now without any mishap. And him still very young.”

“I believe, Mr. Croft,” she said, “that when you described yourself as the best dog trainer in the county, you did not exaggerate.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said. “And today the dog stops here.”

“He does,” Vincent said. “You will not be taking my eyes home with you any longer, Croft. I need them with me.”

Mr. Croft went into the stable block to retrieve his horse and gig, and Sophia and Vincent began the walk back to the house. There was no cane in sight. Only Shep beside his master. Sophia did not take his arm as she usually did.

My eyes.

“Sophie,” he said, reaching for her hand, “how can I ever thank you?”

“For telling you about Lizzie and her dog?” she said. “But why would I keep it a secret?”

“And there is the path to the lake,” he said. “And soon there will be the wilderness walk. There are to be herbs there, are there, and fragrant trees? Whose idea was that?”

“The trees were mine. I did not think of herbs, but they will work marvelously well. I think you will enjoy strolling there. And I have another idea,” she added with a heavy heart. “I shall tell you about it later.”

“The grand secret?” he said. “The one you mentioned at the lake?”

“Mr. Fisk thinks it is a good idea,” she told him.

“Martin?” He turned his head her way. “You have spoken to him?”

“Just now.”

“I am glad.” He smiled. “He thinks you are good for me, you know. The first time or two he said it, he sounded almost grudging. Now he does not. He approves of you and admits that I made a good choice.”

“Oh,” she said, but the praise did not lift her spirits.

She was just another woman in his life. He loved his mother and grandmother and sisters, and she believed he was fond of her. But even so—just another woman to come between him and the independence he craved.

Shep stopped by the steps, and when Vincent stopped too, the dog turned in front of him, led him to the bottom step and stopped again, and then led him up.

“We will go to the drawing room, will we?” Vincent asked when they were inside. “Is it teatime? We have not missed it, have we?”

“No,” Sophia assured him. “I was careful to return in time. Everyone is at home today. We will miss everyone when they leave.”

“I think they are all relieved and disappointed in equal measure,” he told her. “Relieved that you are the wife they have always wanted for me, and disappointed that they are no longer needed to organize my life for me.”

No. There was Sophia to do it for them.

Mr. Croft had spent the past two days in the house with Shep, training him to take Vincent to all the rooms he most frequented. He led them now through the hall and up the staircase and into the drawing room, where they were met with a chorus of boisterous greetings. Everyone was there, including all five children, all between the ages of two and five. Ellen’s Caroline and Ursula’s Percival were playing with Tab—Sophia had given permission earlier for them to fetch him from her sitting room since he never seemed to mind being hugged and mauled and lugged about like a prized toy.

He sat up and eyed Shep warily, arching his back and preparing to hiss. Shep looked disdainfully back and an understanding was struck, as it had been yesterday when the two animals had met for the first time—you stay clear of my space, and I will stay clear of yours.

Sophia seated herself on a love seat, and Vincent sat beside her.

His mother had been horrified at the idea of a dog leading him about without any other assistance, and she had been quite vocal in her opposition. She thought Sophia rather reckless of her son’s safety. But she had seen the dog in action inside the house yesterday, and she had probably watched out of the window this afternoon with Vincent’s grandmother.

Young Ivy, Ellen’s two-year-old, came to climb onto Vincent’s lap, and he gave her his pocket watch on a chain to play with. Sophia found it rather touching that he wore it when he could not see it to know the time, but he always did.

“Oh,” Vincent’s mother said just after the tea tray had been brought in, “there is a letter for you, Sophia. I had it put in your sitting room.”

It always thrilled Sophia to have a letter. It was something that had never happened before her marriage and did not happen often now. But she had heard from Mrs. Parsons at Barton Coombs—her aunt and Sir Clarence and Henrietta had apparently gone back to London for what remained of the Season. And she had heard a number of times from Lady Trentham and once from Lady Kilbourne and even from the rather austere Lady Barclay, who was back in Cornwall, where she lived.

“Thank you.” She smiled. She would read it later and then have all the pleasure of sitting at the small escritoire in the sitting room and replying.

“Tab has put on weight,” she said as she drank her tea. “And his coat is perfectly sleek and shiny.”

“You have put on weight too, Sophia,” Anthony remarked.

“Anthony!”Amy tossed her glance at the ceiling. “That is just what every woman longs to be told.”

“No, no,” he said. “I did not mean that you are getting fat, Sophia. Just that you have lost that almost gaunt look you had when you came here. Your face has filled out to fit your features. The extra weight is becoming. I am going to button my lips now before Amy does it for me.”

Vincent grinned her way, and his grandmother smiled and nodded and even half winked at Sophia. His mother smiled and nodded too.

Was it so obvious to them, then, even though she had not detected any weight gain yet? How could she? She had been married less than two months. But it was undoubtedly true. She had listened to the women talk at the sewing circle, and she had all the right symptoms, if symptoms was the correct word for what was not an illness.

She looked down at her hands and hoped she was not blushing too noticeably. And she felt suddenly miserable. For though Vincent would surely be pleased at the possibility of having an heir, he did not really want to be saddled with either wife or child. He had never wanted it. Not yet, anyway. And there was one thing they had not considered. If they should decide when the time came that they would live apart, who would have the child?

She suspected they would remain together after all, but not with any degree of happiness. Not that happiness had been part of their bargain. Contentment, then. They would not live in perfect contentment.

Tab had come to curl up on the love seat beside Sophia, and Percival came to sit on her lap so that he could smooth one small hand over the cat’s coat.

Sophia smiled at him and felt the soreness of unshed tears at the back of her throat.