“His name is Lambeth,” he had said. “He will visit you tomorrow.”
Sophie had looked numbly at her husband. “I thought we might use Charlotte’s doctor.”
“Charlotte’s doctor! Are you addled? Charlotte almost died giving birth to Sarah.”
Sophie jumped at Patrick’s retort and said nothing. In her memory, it wasn’t exactly the doctor’s fault that Charlotte had trouble delivering Sarah, but what was the use of arguing? She didn’t really mind which doctor she saw.
“How did you choose Dr. Lambeth?”
“I didn’t. My lawyer checked maternal death rates. Lambeth is quite successful in that regard.”
Sophie shivered and didn’t say anything else.
After Dr. Lambeth had paid her a visit, she obediently told Patrick that the doctor saw no cause for alarm. He nodded and said nothing.
They ate dinner together, they ate breakfast together—but they never spoke of the child Sophie carried. Once or twice Sophie knew that Patrick must be thinking about the babe, because he abruptly spanned her growing waist with his large hands, almost as if he was measuring it. But he said nothing, and every time she brought it up, he changed the subject or left the room.
“He doesn’t want our baby,” Sophie whispered to herself, her eyes anxious. She crossed her hands over her stomach. There was nothing new in that, after all. Patrick had made his feelings about children clear long ago.
Perhaps he resents the fact that we can’t make love, Sophie told herself hopefully. Her mother had stated that when a woman is in a delicate condition, a couple may not have marital relations. When she mentioned this idea to Patrick, he merely nodded, and from that day he had hardly touched her. Sophie didn’t know how to confess that she hadn’t meant to follow her mother’s advice. At the very least, she thought they ought to ask Dr. Lambeth.
But she was too shy to broach the subject. Instead they slipped easily back into the limbo state in which they had lived after returning from Wales. Patrick took her arm on the way in to dinner. He guided her up the stairs. He looked at her appreciatively, but not hungrily. They said decorous farewells at the door to Sophie’s room.
For her part, Sophie found herself thirsting for her husband, surreptitiously looking at his long legs, longing to touch his back. She dreamed of his kisses, of the way he used to brush her whole body with butterfly touches. Sophie was too bashful to instigate a caress. After all, she had been the one to report her mother’s opinion of marital relations during pregnancy. And Patrick seemed as indifferent to her as he had when they had stopped sleeping together before. He had certainly returned to the embraces of his black-haired courtesan; once or twice each week he returned to his bedroom in the early hours of the morning.
Perhaps, Sophie thought unhappily, perhaps Patrick dislikes the fact that I am growing plump. For a moment she looked at herself and saw extra flesh everywhere … breasts, cheeks, stomach. Disgusted, she dropped her hands and turned away from the mirror.
In the park, the carriages of high-flung courtesans mingled with the carriages of the nobility. Sophie searched the faces of those with black hair, comparing their slender elegance to her rounded form, their dark beauty to her tedious blondness.
But I am clever, Sophie told herself stoutly, in moments of desperation and shame. I am not stupid.
Resolutely, she turned her not inconsiderable intelligence to orchestrating dinners with her husband. She read The Times and The Morning Post, she read plays and the satirical ballads you could buy on the street corner. She turned the supper table into an engaging and lively encounter during which she and Patrick would fall into minibattles over the success of Napoleon’s military campaigns in the East, or brisk arguments over the morality of the new labor laws protecting apprentices in factories. They discussed Patrick’s imports, and at night Sophie dreamed of tall-masted ships, pushing off from the West India docks in London.
The only subjects they never discussed were children and the gossip pages of The Morning Post. The paper seemed obsessed with adulterous couples. Sophie read those pages only in order to find out where Patrick went at night. His name was never mentioned, which meant he was far more discreet than her own papa had been.
Sophie had no illusions about what she was doing. Her husband might be spending his nights with a courtesan. She was trying to ensure that at least he came home for dinner.
Never having left London, Sophie needed to do nothing in preparation for the new season. Madame Carême had already delivered a number of elegant maternity gowns, designed to conceal the babe growing within. But given Sophie’s small stature and her rapidly expanding girth, not even one of Madame’s gowns could conceal the truth at this point.
Sure enough, Charlotte knew the instant she saw Sophie. She shrieked with delight. “Sophie! Look at you! Why didn’t you write me?”
Her tall, beautiful friend swept her into a hug. A minute later Alex strolled into the room to find his wife seated on a narrow settee against the wall, talking nineteen to the dozen to his sister-in-law. One look at Sophie and he swung about to face his twin.
Despite himself, Patrick’s mouth quirked into a grin as he met Alex’s eyes. He didn’t mean to be pleased about the baby—he wouldn’t let himself be pleased. But he couldn’t help being just a trifle proud.
Alex gave his brother a rough hug. “Are things improved?”
“We’re still not sleeping in the same room,” Patrick said with a shrug. “But now it’s because of Sophie’s condition, so that’s an improvement.”
Alex looked appalled. “Sounds like an insufferable idea to me. What does your doctor say?”
“I didn’t ask,” Patrick replied. “After all, Sophie’s pregnant. If she doesn’t want to, I can’t make her.” Patrick’s voice was so tense that Alex felt a knot form in his stomach.
“I think it’s an absurd old-wives’ tale,” Alex said. “What’s your doctor’s name? I’m damn sure that other couples don’t have this idea.”
“David Lambeth,” Patrick replied. “He’s supposed to be the best in London.”
“Let me get this straight,” Alex said resignedly. “Last month you and Sophie weren’t sharing a bedroom. Now it seems you’re having a fit of the blue devils over her pregnancy. For God’s sake, Patrick, I was under the impression that your marriage was about to flounder.”
Alex hesitated. “Not sleeping together can draw a man and woman apart. If you ask me, that rule is rubbish.”
“It is Sophie’s prerogative,” Patrick said shortly. “At any rate, this will be our only child. I won’t allow her to go through this a second time.”
“Sophie is a young, healthy woman. I am certain that she will deliver the baby with no problem.”
“The way Charlotte had no problem?”
Alex’s body went rigid. He knew as well as Patrick did that Charlotte’s being near death while delivering their daughter had nothing to do with her size or build.
“All I’m saying,” Patrick continued, “is that even a very large woman like Charlotte is in grave danger when pregnant. Sophie is a little scrap … like Mother.”
Alex looked over at his lovely, slender wife and almost smiled to hear that she was “very large.” But he picked his way carefully. He knew, better than anyone, how bitterly Patrick had taken their mother’s death in childbirth.
“Sophie is not Mother,” he said firmly. “Don’t you remember the fragile air that Mother had? Sophie is small, perhaps, but not fragile.”
Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Clemens paused in the large doorway of the drawing room and announced the arrival of the Marquis and Marchioness of Brandenburg.
“Maman!” Sophie hurried to the door.
Eloise met her with a stream of rapid French; her father merely smiled affectionately and strolled over to the other side of the room. Although Eloise had seen her daughter only two days previously, she was full of reminders, rejoinders, suggestions.
“Oh, Maman,” S
ophie said, half laughing, “a milk bath? Pooh!”
Eloise switched into English. “A milk bath is vital to a woman’s constitution and you must keep your constitution up while enceinte. Think of Marie Antoinette! She had a milk bath once a week.”
“I don’t want to think about that poor woman,” Sophie said with a shiver, dismissing the idea of King Louis XVI’s wife. “And I don’t want a milk bath, Maman. It sounds horribly sticky. Besides, I think that Marie Antoinette took those baths to improve her skin, not her health.”
Clemens appeared in the doorway again. “Lady Skiffing; Lady Madeleine Corneille, daughter of the Marquis de Flammarion, and Mrs. Trevelyan; Mr. Sylvester Bredbeck; Misters Erskine and Peter Dewland.”
Sophie’s heart beat a little faster. It was unfortunate that Madeleine happened to arrive at the same time as a group of guests. Sophie had hoped to introduce her to Eloise without an audience. But Sylvester Bredbeck was one of Eloise’s dearest friends, and so Eloise greeted her daughter’s new friend quickly and then settled into a cozy talk with Sylvester.
Madeleine, for her part, felt nothing but gratitude when the terrifying marchioness dismissed her with a kindly smile. She turned to greet the gentleman at her elbow, but her brown eyes immediately softened when she saw that Erskine—Quill—had difficulty standing.
With all her innate gentility, she instantly broke one of the rules she had learned from Sophie—a young lady never asks to be seated when her elders are standing—and announced that she was a bit tired after the carriage ride. In mere seconds, she and her chaperone were seated, with Quill relaxed in an armchair and breathing a silent sigh of relief.
“That’s a pretty-behaved gal,” her father said to Sophie in passing. “Saw what she did for the elder Dewland chap, the one with the ridiculous nickname—Quill, isn’t it?” He snorted. “A man shouldn’t be named after a writing tool, if you ask me. Pretty behaved: pretty gal, too. Too many young girls don’t have any meat on their bones, these days.”
Sophie looked at him sharply. Papa couldn’t try to set Madeleine up as a flirt! But George was smiling at Madeleine with paternal approval. Sophie sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Amorous interest on her father’s part would be a disaster for Sophie’s plans. Then her mother would be bound to dislike poor Madeleine.
“Never heard of the Marquis de Flammarion, have you?” The Honorable Sylvester Bredbeck had finished imparting a delicate rumor about a mutual acquaintance and was scanning the room. He was a small, bustling man with a creaky corset and a fervent love of gossip.
“Certainly I have,” Eloise replied firmly. She prided herself on a vast knowledge of French aristocracy. “The marquis lived a very retired life. I never met him myself.” She frowned. “I can’t quite place where his estates were. The Limousin, perhaps.”
“Can’t be too careful, these days,” Sylvester commented.
Eloise bridled. Sylvester was close to suggesting that Eloise’s own daughter had invited a pretender to her home. Sylvester caught her glance and quailed.
“I certainly didn’t mean to suggest anything of the sort about the daughter of the marquis,” he said hastily. “Seeing as she is a special friend of your family.”
“Not only because of that,” Eloise snapped. “Lady Madeleine is French aristocracy to the tip of her fingertips, sir. It is visible with just a glance. I, if anyone, would be able to ascertain immediately if she were an impostor, and she is not.”
Sylvester nodded energetically. He had no wish to cross swords with Eloise (to be frank, he was terrified of her), and besides, the girl did seem to be charming.
“You misunderstand me, dear lady,” he said, pouring oil on the waters. “I never meant to cast aspersions on Lady Madeleine’s background. I simply made a general statement. Someone with your keen eye must have noticed that there seem to be more French aristocrats in London than there ever were in Paris, even when Louis XVI was on the throne!”
Eloise settled her ruffled plumage. “In that respect, Mr. Bredbeck, you are absolutely correct.” She lowered her voice. “Did you hear that the so-called Comte de Vissale turned out to be a French nobody? In fact, Madame de Meneval told me that she suspects he was nothing more than the music instructor for the real comte’s children.”
Sylvester’s eyes brightened. “Goodness me,” he said. “Why, I had the pleasure of talking to the comte—or rather, the not-comte—just last week.” He tittered happily.
Sophie walked up to her mother. “Maman, now that our party is complete, I thought we might go in to dinner.”
Eloise cast a look toward the door. To be sure, Sophie had already corralled the Earl and Countess of Sheffield and Downes, Patrick’s brother and sister-in-law.
But Sylvester had one more thing to ask. “And where is the former comte now? Applying for work in a music academy, perhaps?”
“Madame de Meneval told me that he has fled the country,” Eloise replied. “Most likely he has gone to America. I understand that all manner of thieves and frauds live in that country.”
“My goodness,” Sophie said lightly. “What on earth are you two talking about?”
Sylvester turned to her. “Your mother is the best of friends with Madame de Meneval and is telling me amusing tales of false Frenchmen. Have you met Madame?”
Sophie shook her head. “Who is she?”
Eloise broke in impatiently. “Goodness me, Sophie. I told you about dear Madame last week. You must not have been listening. She was a valued member of the court of Louis XVI, and she personally knew every single member of the French aristocracy. Now she is in London, and one of her more unpleasant tasks has been unmasking the large number of pretenders who are thronging our streets, pretending to be French nobility!”
Sophie’s eyes widened. Madame de Meneval was clearly someone whom Madeleine must avoid at all costs. But Eloise was already turning away, going to join her husband at the door.
Sophie had placed Madeleine between Quill and Lord Reginald Petersham. Quill would never do anything to overset a lady’s composure, and while Reginald was practically guaranteed to bore Madeleine’s ear off with some lengthy bits of gallantry, he too was harmless.
Braddon was not invited. Sophie judged him too likely to forget himself and smile intimately at Madeleine. Although she had to admit that Braddon was taking this particular scheme with deadly seriousness. It was he who had insisted that Madeleine have a chaperone who herself came from the highest ranks of English society. Mrs. Trevelyan was a highly respected widow, formerly married to a bishop who had been, as it happened, the younger son of a duke.
Living now in reduced circumstances, she had happily agreed to chaperone a motherless young Frenchwoman, the dear friend of Lady Sophie Foakes’s. Sophie could see that Mrs. Trevelyan lent Madeleine a great air of respectability. Braddon had been right to choose a well-bred Englishwoman rather than one of the many Frenchwomen scattered around London.
When everyone was finally seated, Sophie found that she was too nervous to touch the lobster. She looked past the four candelabra that separated her from Patrick, at the far end of the table. He was leaning slightly to his left, talking to Lady Skiffing.
Sophie had invited as many dedicated gossips as she could without making her intent obvious. The idea was that if they met Madeleine in Sophie’s house, under the eagle eye of the Marchioness of Brandenburg, at least these particular gossips would not question Madeleine’s ancestry.
And it seemed to be working. Lady Skiffing was smiling happily at whatever Patrick was telling her. Lady Prestlefield was holding forth in a shrill undertone, detailing the latest disgraceful expenditure of the Prince of Wales, who was rumored to be over seventy thousand pounds in debt. None of the three appeared to have had a qualm when they met Madeleine.
Madeleine herself was playing the part of a maiden born to the highest ranks of French society, without turning a hair. In fact, she wasn’t terribly afraid. She was too busy remembering all the rules Sophie had drilled into her hea
d. At the moment she was counting silently. Nine minutes, ten minutes … It was time to smile politely at Lord Petersham, turn her head to the left, and talk to Erskine Dewland.
Wonder of wonders, Mr. Dewland had just ended his conversation with Chloe Holland, who was sitting to his left. We must look like a dance troupe, Madeleine thought with a giggle. All of us are turning our heads to and fro at exactly the same moment.
“If I may enquire,” Quill asked, “what on earth are you thinking about, Lady Madeleine? I should tell you that English dinners are very serious affairs, and one rarely, if ever, laughs.”
Madeleine smiled at him. “I was thinking that we must all resemble a choreographed ballet. I saw one once, as a young girl in France. All the dancers balanced on their toes and turned their heads just so, and then back, just so. Here we all are, sitting about a table, and turning our heads at precisely the same moment.”
Quill’s dark green eyes filled with laughter. “It sounds more like a bankside interlude, as you describe it.”
Madeleine looked curious.
“A puppet show,” Quill explained.
Madeleine gave him a tiny smile. “I, sir, would never be so impolite as to describe the crème of English society as puppets.”
At that Quill laughed out loud, instantly drawing the attention of Lady Skiffing, Lady Prestlefield, and the Honorable Sylvester Bredbeck.
Lady Skiffing frowned slightly. “Lady Madeleine could do much better than Erskine Dewland,” she remarked to Patrick. “True, he will be a viscount someday, but one must ask: Is he capable? Although he appears to have almost recovered from the accident, I hear that his father has arranged for the younger boy to marry an Indian heiress, so the family must know something we don’t.”
Patrick resisted the impulse to give his dinner partner a sharp set-down. Sophie had been so worried about the success of her dinner that he didn’t want to cause further anxiety by snapping at her guests, although Lady Skiffing was a petulant old witch.
So he looked down at her benignly, his face smooth and friendly. “Quill is a particular friend of mine; I can assure you that Lady Madeleine could not do better than to accept his hand in marriage, were he to offer it.”