Page 25 of One Day for a Valet

Sofia shook her head, then crossed her arms on the table, resting her cheek against her forearm to watch him work.

He didn’t pause. “All right.”

That was it. He wasn’t going to press for more or mope when she wouldn’t give him the answers he craved. When he fell silent, it wasn’t mulish. He was simply intent on his work. He glanced over from time to time, a small smile on his face. It was as if this was the best evening he could imagine, with her as the very best company and the task before him as the very best way to spend his time.

Resentment at Oliver began to thicken in her chest. She didn’t want to keep secrets from Christopher. How good it would feel to share some of herself with him. To reciprocate his easy smile and open heart. As they sat side by side, she searched for something she could give him, some truth that would hurt no one to reveal. “My papa was not an affectionate man,” she offered.

Christopher's hands slowed.

“He wasn’t a bad sort. Just disinterested …. in me anyway. And his involvement with Oliver—that’s my brother—extended only to what Papa could teach him about botany. In that capacity, they were inseparable. It came as quite a surprise when Oli and I discovered several years ago that Oliver was not my father's natural-born son.”

Feeling raw and vulnerable, Sofia lifted her cheek from where it rested and clasped her hands, her fingers fidgeting against one another.

Christopher placed a boot before her on the table.

Removing the cork from a bottle, he doused a soft rag with its contents, took one of her hands in his, and demonstrated a slow circular pattern against the leather. “Don’t be afraid to put some muscle into it. The leather is sturdy.”

Her eyes trained to her task, Sofia used the rag in her hand as she continued speaking. Slowly at first. But the more she talked, the easier it became, until she could feel the weight of her secrets falling away like the soupy mud that dripped from Northam’s boots.

“It began when Oliver found a letter written by his mama, Sarah. He was sorting through some of Sarah’s old things and found it tucked away in the pages of a book. It recounted a rather sad tale about her brief relationship with the man who was Oliver’s father.”

Christopher exchanged the metal pick for the cloth and the bottle of soapy water, then began scrubbing with the same circular motion he’d shown Sofia.

“When Oliver approached Papa with questions, Papa turned him away. He refused Oliver any answers at all. I think Papa must have been hurt to find that the information mattered so much to Oliver.”

Sofia’s hands halted when she noticed the frothy, muddy mess she had made on the table. “Should this be rinsed?” she asked, grimacing at the slop. “Maybe I should stick to mathematics.”

Christopher took the boot, examined her progress, and then gave it back. “No, you are doing splendidly. So well, in fact, that Gabriel may replace me with a newer, harder-working, lovelier model. If you can achieve an artful cravat knot, I may be doomed to unemployment. Now dab away the excess with that cloth there and begin again. When you’re done, we’ll wipe it with a moist cloth and allow it to dry a bit. Soon I’ll introduce you to the exciting world of leather conditioning with cod liver oil and tallow.” He grinned.

Relaxing again into the rhythm of her work, Sofia continued. “Had the discovery of Oliver's birth occurred even a year before, I’m certain they would have found a way to forgive one another. But as it was, their relationship was already in tatters. It was dried kindling waiting for a spark. Six months earlier, Signor Morelli, the decant—that is, the dean at the University of Pisa—wished to court me. I refused, but he wouldn’t listen. He enjoyed my discomfort, I think. The more I protested, the more aggressive he became, cornering me at every opportunity.”

Christopher’s scrubbing became acutely aggressive, but he remained silent.

“My papa liked him, respected him even, and pressed me to marry him. Oliver would not have it. He and Papa fought over what to do about Signor Morelli almost to the point of coming to blows. Then one evening, Oliver overheard a conversation between Papa and Morelli. He discovered that Morelli had dangled a more prestigious position over my father's nose in exchange for my hand. Oliver was livid. He went over both their heads to the rettore, the rector responsible for all the administrators.”

Sofia sighed, the memory of Oliver’s fierce defence brushing against an unprotected place in her heart. “Oliver would not back down. He wouldn’t allow my feelings to be ignored, no matter the cost to himself. And it worked. Signor Morelli’s situation became uncomfortable enough that he stopped pursuing me. But in the process, Morelli convinced the rettore to dismiss Papa."

“After that day,” Sofia continued, “things were never the same. There was a rift between Oliver and Papa that neither would bridge. Papa fell into despair … his job at the university was everything to him, and he saw our behaviour as a betrayal. I was the selfish and wilful daughter who would not bend to his demands. Oliver was the traitorous son.”

Sofia had long since ceased her cleaning, trapped within the aching memory and staring sightlessly at her muddy hands. She startled when Christopher's soapy palm slid over the backs of her fingers, but he gently hushed her before engulfing her hands in the warmth of his own.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. Your papa was wrong to push you. Wrong to trade your happiness for his own.”

Sofia scoffed. “English aristocrats do it all the time. A daughter’s only value lies in her ability to marry well. I’m surprised to hear you disapprove of the practice.”

Christopher tightened his grip, his fingers curled around hers in a secure clasp that caused her shoulders to sag in relief. “Ah, but I am not an aristocrat, sweetheart. And even if I am someday blessed with an entire houseful of daughters who drain my savings on ribbons and fripperies, I will see them married for no reason but love.”

She smiled at their clasped hands, and for a heartbeat she could see those ribbon-adorned daughters clearly in her mind … her dark curls and their father's mud-puddle-grey eyes. No. Gritting her teeth against the cold she knew would return with the loss of his touch, she slid her hand from beneath his and reached for the dry cloth.

When she chanced a glance in his direction, he had resumed his work.

She should stop talking and go to bed, but his willingness to give her space made her long for less of it. Or rather, she wished to let him share her inner world, though it had always been a solitary place.

“After six months’ worth of tension, both Papa and Oliver were spoiling for a fight.” Sofia looked away. “When it came, it was terrible. Oliver left. A few months later, Papa went after him. He realised he’d been wrong and wanted to make amends, but he never found Oliver. When Papa returned, he could barely remain upright. He’d contracted consumption … It was blessedly quick.”

Sofia sponged off the boot and set it to the side.

“I spent what money we had remaining on doctors, and when that ran out, I sold our things. My mother’s paintings, my father’s books, anything anyone would buy. By the time he passed, I had nothing. No papa. No brother. No money. And, eventually, no home.”