Page 19 of One Day for a Valet

At the wry glare Sofia gave her, some of Polly’s merriment fizzled away. “Oh, you really ought to lighten up a little, Sofia. What you need is a little more fun in your life.” Before Sofia could gracefully extricate herself from the conversation, Polly extended an invitation for Sofia to join her regular Friday night game of whist, then insisted Sofia add her dress to the day’s wash. “Say you’ll come, Sofia!”

Why must everyone on this estate make me feel so blasted welcome? Couldn’t she just perform her duties, accept her salary, and leave before her brother had an opportunity to muck everything up? And why couldn’t she bring herself to just say no thank you and walk away?

Sofia arrived in Mrs Janewood’s sitting room promptly at eight o’clock, accepted a glass of wine from Jeremy, and settled into the only remaining chair, with Polly to her right and Annie at her left. Somewhere amidst the chatter and teasing at the card table, a startling realisation struck Sofia—Polly’s invitation was not a poorly disguised reconnaissance mission, as she had suspected. Her fellow servants only wished to be kind. They had no intention of intruding on her privacy. In light of that discovery, every interaction took on a different shape; their questions felt like inclusion, their banter, an invitation of friendship.

Jeremy planted his forehead in his palm, his booming laugh negating the pained expression that preceded it. “Polly! Your ‘hidden’ signal to Annie is about as subtle as a strutting peacock! You can’t swindle a swindler so stop trying to cheat me!”

His gaze left Polly’s just long enough to give Sofia a subtle nod. So, not an expression, then. Jeremy was once a swindler. There would be no uncomfortable questions or probing stares because, like Polly, many of the servants had murky pasts. Jeremy’s words were a plea to stand down. To stop assuming she was the only one amongst them with secrets better left buried. To abandon the burden of her heavy shield because it would not be needed amongst these people.

Relinquishing her shield was not an option, but as the night wore on, some of Sofia—the real Sofia—began to show through the cracks of her armour. She smiled at their jokes and delighted in the easy relationships between these friends. And even though she was still guarded, still lying by omission, her comfort with them began to feel less like a performance and more like a brief reprieve from her real life. It was a moment to forget what she was meant to be doing and enjoy an uncomplicated evening, safe amongst people who accepted her without the benefit of knowing all of her.

That invitation turned out to be the first of many over the following fortnight. Nora taught her how to play chess … and then proceeded to change the rules every time Sofia began to get the upper hand. Marcus, one of the younger grooms, gave her a lesson in lunging a yearling colt on a long rope. And, Polly and Annie invited her to read a copy of a London scandal sheet Annie’s cousin had sent in the post. For many of the activities, Christopher remained nearby—suggesting an attack of her knight to capture Nora’s bishop, placing a hand on her shoulder to correct her angle with the horse, and chuckling with the women over London’s scandals.

Conversation was always lively and congenial, and Sofia grew to anticipate Christopher’s quick wit and easy affability with everyone around him. They were seldom alone, save for a moment or two at the end of every evening when he walked her to her door. Each night he would bow over her hand, gaze up at her with entirely too much tenderness, and ask if she would be his friend again the following day.

Shortly after breaking her fast on a dreary Saturday morning, Polly raced up beside her on the servants’ steps, looping her hand through the crook of Sofia’s arm.

“Annie got a new letter from her beau, Patrick. He’s away apprenticing with a blacksmith and he writes the loveliest things. Words that will make your toes curl, they will! Once we’ve finished with the second-floor sills and windows we’re going to help her write a nice romantic reply. I bet you’ve read all kinds of poetry. Will you come?”

With Polly’s infectious enthusiasm, there was really no declining the invitation. So after retiring to her room to finish her lesson plans for the week, Sofia made her way down to Mrs Janewood’s sitting room. At the distinctive sound of Christopher’s laughter, she paused, standing in the hallway with her hand on the doorknob.

“I promise you, Annie, you needn’t worry about being too forward. That man is practically panting at the thought of being near you again. Look at how hasty his handwriting is here … And this paragraph? Where he talks about how unbearably long his nights have been? Poor fellow is clearly smitten.” A beat of silence passed, followed by feminine giggles and a long-suffering masculine groan. “No, don’t write that! Who are you writing to, your elderly aunt? Yes, that’s better, but scratch that out and try impassioned instead.”

Resting her forehead against the door, Sofia closed her eyes against a swooping rush of … what? Fondness? Admiration? Affection? Whatever it was, it was far from the disinterest that her sensible brain demanded.

“Sofia, is that you?” Annie called out.

Lifting her head, Sofia schooled her features and opened the door. “Yes. How’s the letter writing coming along?”

Polly and Annie huddled side by side on the rug, balled up parchment scattered about. Behind them, Christopher perched on the edge of a chair, elbows on his knees, reading the most recent draft over Annie’s shoulder.

Annie shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at putting my feelings on paper. Patrick has a sophisticated mind. Did real good in school. I don’t know what a man like that would fancy in a letter.”

“Scoot over, poppet.” Christopher slid off the chair to the floor, settling between the girls. “Bollocks to his sophisticated mind. Men are all the same when they fancy a girl. It doesn’t matter how smart he is because …” His gaze slid down to his lap, where the fingers of one hand curled around his knee. “Because from the moment he set eyes on you, he skipped right over logic and reason and went straight to instinct. When he tears open your envelope with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he’s not hoping for a pretty list of compliments, he’s starving for the sound of your voice. He’s searching through the pages for a moment of levity because, when he reads those words, he’ll see the shape of your lips when you smile. And he’ll savour the last line, because when it’s over, the world will fade back to the ordinary place it was before and the longing for you will begin all over again.”

No one spoke. Colour bled across Christopher’s cheeks until the blush that stained his skin stood out like a beacon in the dark. When he finally raised his eyes, in an agony of slowness, they landed on Sofia’s.

Annie looked from Christopher to Sofia, then began fanning herself vigorously with her letter. “Lord above, Christopher. If I could write words as pretty as yours, Patrick would show up at my door an hour later, half dazed and with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.”

“I’m surprised you even remember Patrick’s name!” Polly said with a giggle. “I’m afraid I’ve gone and fallen in love with you, Christopher.” She pretended to swoon, her head falling into his lap amidst spurts of laughter. Only then did Christopher break the tether between him and Sofia, a lopsided grin creeping onto his face as he ruffled Polly’s auburn hair. “Flattering as your declaration of affection is, my sweet, I’m afraid I’m nearly old enough to be your papa.”

Eight

After supper, one of the gardeners approached Sofia in the kitchen with a bouquet of flowers for her room, stuttering through an explanation of having cut too many.

“I believe you may have an admirer,” Christopher said, approaching her from behind and angling his body close to smell a partially opened rose. The muscles of his chest brushed her shoulder as he leaned in, and even after he eased away her nerves tingled at the contact.

“Nonsense. He’s just being friendly.”

Christopher stepped away to retrieve a vase then filled it with water. “You seem surprised at that … the friendliness, I mean.” He slid the bouquet from her loose fingers. “May I?” Turning his attention to the flowers, he arranged, then rearranged, cocking his head to the side and shuffling the blooms. Apparently satisfied with his work, he asked, “Is it England that you expected to be unwelcoming, or just the people of this estate?”

Sofia hesitated, unwilling to admit that she’d imagined villains behind these stately walls. “I’m not sure what I was expecting. Something colder and more rigid, I suppose. Certainly not singing scullery maids and a duchess who nurtures wounded chickens with the same care she bestows upon her children. Or a valet who refers to the duke by his Christian name. Everyone has been so … kind.”

He nodded. “I saw the duke’s naked behind more times than I care to count when we swam in the river as boys, long before I was asked to tie his cravat. Referring to the man by his title in private seems excessive. But I admit, Northam Hall hasn’t always been such a jolly place. We are in a celebratory cycle of sorts. How do I explain this?” He removed one rose to trim the stem, then added it back to the vase. “Gabriel genuinely cares for his servants, and, in return, we are unwavering in our devotion. We’re invested in his welfare and his happiness. Myself in particular, as our relationship goes well beyond that of a servant and his master. Everyone at the estate mourned alongside him with the death of his late wife, Emma. It was hard watching him after.”

Christopher stroked along the petals of a yellow rose, then separated it from the rest of the bouquet. Raising the bloom to his nose, he inhaled, his thick eyelashes fluttering closed. “Those were difficult years. I honestly did not expect him to ever fall in love again. At times, I worried he would never again smile without effort or look to the sunrise of a new day with anything other than grim determination to endure it.”

Snapping the stem an inch away from the bud, he held it out to her. “For your hair, Sofia. Just here.” Before Sofia had time to react, his fingers swept over the spot he’d pointed to, tucking back a curl that was attempting to flee its pins. His touch was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but her memory seemed to wrap around the sensation, refusing to let it go. Her eyes snapped to meet his. They were crinkled at the corners, smiling even though his lips were not. “You should always have flowers in your hair, Miss Lioni.” Again, he extended his hand, the innocent offering tucked between thumb and index finger. It was a cheerful yellow. He was a cheerful yellow. Bright and impossible to ignore, beaming with such enthusiasm that she could not escape his brilliance even through closed eyelids.