‘Toby hasn’t seen him for years, I expect he forgot what he’s like.’
‘Did you know him before?’
‘Yes, I met him when he was last in Town.’ Her voice was completely colourless.
Confide in me, for Heaven’s sake, woman! She had told him nothing about her lover that he could take violent exception to on her behalf. If he was right and Ransome was the man then he had to ignore it unless she asked him to send him away or the man offered her some insult or unwanted intimacy. But he could wish she would talk to him. The nagging thought that now she had caught her duke she would then stop being honest with him was disturbing. Sophie’s openness with him was something he found he valued deeply.
Chapter Nineteen - Where Sophie Works Magic
Sophie fetched her embroidery before she went with Cal up to the nursery. She had an idea about how to handle Isobel and it would be a useful accessory.
‘Do you expect tantrums?’ she asked as Cal paused at the door.
‘Probably.’ When she took a breath to speak, then closed her lips firmly on the words he looked down at her with a smile. ‘Thank you for not telling me to go and rest.’
He pushed open the door onto a scene that made her heart sink. Nanny Jenkins, hands on hips, was confronting Isobel, who had taken up the same pose.
‘I don’t like this house. I don’t like my lessons. I want to go out.’
‘You will go outside when your father says you may and not before.’
‘I’m a lady now that Papa’s a duke. You have to do as I say.’
‘A lady has manners and a lady knows her duty,’ the little Welsh woman said. ‘Your father has put me in charge of you. It is your duty to become an educated, well-informed and well-mannered young lady.’
‘That is boring.’
‘I expect you are too young, really, to have Mrs Jenkins to look after you instead of a nursery maid.’ Sophie stepped into the room. ‘Your papa obviously has great confidence in how grown-up and intelligent you are, but he must be mistaken. Good morning, Mrs Jenkins. May I join you?’
Mrs Jenkins bobbed a curtsy, Sophie smiled and took a seat in the window, shook out her embroidery and sat back.
‘Good morning, Miss Wilmott. Good morning, Your Grace.’
‘Papa!’
‘Mrs Jenkins. Isobel. I have come to see how your lessons are coming along.’ Cal bent and picked the child up, kissed her cheek and set her back down again.
Isobel tossed her ringlets. ‘I am working very hard. I don’t like this house.’
‘You do not know this house. But if Mrs Jenkins thinks you have been good this morning then after luncheon you may go outside and explore. With two footmen, Mrs Jenkins. I do not see why you should have to chase after the child and fish her out of the lake.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. We had been studying deportment. As we have a visitor, Isobel, I would like you to go and greet Miss Wilmott and make polite conversation while your papa and I sit down quietly over here.’ From the way she was looking at Cal Sophie could tell she recognised that he was unwell.
Isobel, lower lip thrust out, marched over to Sophie who laid her embroidery on the seat beside her. ‘Good morning, Miss Wilmott. Welcome to the nursery. I hope you are having a pleasant stay.’
‘Good morning, Lady Isobel. Thank you, I am having a delightful time.’
Isobel turned with a smirk and marched back towards Mrs Jenkins who simply waved her away. ‘Conversation, Isobel.’
Sophie reached over and pulled up a small chair so that it was facing her. ‘I have embroidery to work on. Do you sew, Lady Isobel?’
‘No.’
Silence fell. Sophie, who had faced down more daunting social situations in her time, placidly made a row of French knots and waited.
‘Why do you sew? Why not buy what you want?’
‘It is interesting to create exactly what I would like and satisfying when I have made it. This is a present for my mother, a cover for her wash stand.’
‘I don’t have a mother.’ And you are not going to be one, the fierce brown stare promised.
‘You have a father though. You could embroider his initials on a handkerchief, then he would think of you every time he looked at it.’ Sophie took a large plain square of fine linen from her bag where she had put it with just this in mind, smoothed it out on the seat beside her and picked up her embroidery again.
‘I don’t know anyone who does that. Nanny Jenkins knits.’
‘You know me.’ Sophie glanced over the dark head to where Cal was stretched out on the battered chaise longue, hands folded on his flat stomach, eyes closed. Beside him Mrs Jenkins placidly knitted something grey and lacy.
‘You don’t like me.’ Isobel scuffed one toe into the rug.
‘Why do you say that? I don’t know you.’
‘I was rude to you. Nanny Jenkins says people don’t like people who are rude to them.’