And Sophie waited.
He presented the kitchen maids, the upstairs maids, the scullery maids.
And Sophie waited.
And then finally the butler—Rumsey was his name—presented the lowliest of the lowest of maids, a scullery girl named Dulcie who had been hired a mere week earlier. The earl nodded and murmured his thanks, and Sophie was still waiting, completely unsure of what to do.
So she cleared her throat and stepped forward, a nervous smile on her face. She didn’t spend much time with the earl, but she was trotted out before him whenever he visited Penwood Park, and he always gave her a few minutes of his time, asking about her lessons before shooing her back up to the nursery.
Surely he’d still want to know how her studies were progressing, even now that he’d married. Surely he’d want to know that she’d mastered the science of multiplying fractions, and that Miss Timmons had recently declared her French accent, “perfection.”
But he was busy saying something to the countess’s daughters, and he didn’t hear her. Sophie cleared her throat again, this time more loudly, and said, “My lord?” in a voice that came out a bit more squeaky than she’d intended.
The earl turned around. “Ah, Sophia,” he murmured, “I didn’t realize you were in the hall.”
Sophie beamed. He hadn’t been ignoring her, after all.
“And who might this be?” the countess asked, stepping forward to get a better look.
“My ward,” the earl replied. “Miss Sophia Beckett.”
The countess speared Sophie with an assessing look, then her eyes narrowed.
And narrowed.
And narrowed some more.
“I see,” she said.
And everyone in the room knew instantly that she did see.
“Rosamund,” the countess said, turning to her two girls, “Posy, come with me.”
The girls moved immediately to their mother’s side. Sophie hazarded a smile in their direction. The smaller one smiled back, but the older one, whose hair was the color of spun gold, took her cue from her mother, pointed her nose in the air, and looked firmly away.
Sophie gulped and smiled again at the friendly girl, but this time the little girl chewed on her lower lip in indecision, then cast her eyes toward the floor.
The countess turned her back on Sophie and said to the earl, “I assume you have had rooms prepared for Rosamund and Posy.”
He nodded. “Near the nursery. Right next to Sophie.”
There was a long silence, and then the countess must have decided that certain battles should not be conducted before the servants, because all she said was, “I would like to go upstairs now.”
And she left, taking the earl and her daughters along with her.
Sophie watched the new family walk up the stairs, and then, as they disappeared onto the landing, she turned to Mrs. Gibbons and asked, “Do you think I should go up to help? I could show the girls the nursery.”
Mrs. Gibbons shook her head. “They looked tired,” she lied. “I’m sure they’ll be needing a nap.”
Sophie frowned. She’d been told that Rosamund was eleven and Posy was ten. Surely that was a bit old for taking naps.
Mrs. Gibbons patted her on the back. “Why don’t you come with me? I could use a bit of company, and Cook told me that she just made a fresh batch of shortbread. I think it’s still warm.”
Sophie nodded and followed her out of the hall. She’d have plenty of time that evening to get to know the two girls. She’d show them the nursery, and then they’d become friends, and before long they’d be as sisters.
Sophie smiled. It would be glorious to have sisters.
As it happened, Sophie did not encounter Rosamund and Posy—or the earl and countess, for that matter—until the next day. When Sophie entered the nursery to take her supper, she noticed that the table had been set for two, not four, and Miss Timmons (who had miraculously recovered from her ailment) said that the new countess had told her that Rosamund and Posy were too tired from their travels to eat that evening.
But the girls had to have their lessons, and so the next morning they arrived in the nursery, trailing the countess by one step each. Sophie had been working at her lessons for an hour already, and she looked up from her arithmetic with great interest. She didn’t smile at the girls this time. Somehow it seemed best not to.
“Miss Timmons,” the countess said.
Miss Timmons bobbed a curtsy, murmuring, “My lady.”
“The earl tells me you will teach my daughters.”
“I will do my best, my lady.”
The countess motioned to the older girl, the one with golden hair and cornflower eyes. She looked, Sophie thought, as pretty as the porcelain doll the earl had sent up from London for her seventh birthday.
“This,” the countess said, “is Rosamund. She is eleven. And this”—she then motioned to the other girl, who had not taken her eyes off of her shoes—“is Posy. She is ten.”
Sophie looked at Posy with great interest. Unlike her mother and sister, her hair and eyes were quite dark, and her cheeks were a bit pudgy.
“Sophie is also ten,” Miss Timmons replied.
The countess’s lips thinned. “I would like you to show the girls around the house and garden.”
Miss Timmons nodded. “Very well. Sophie, put your slate down. We can return to arithmetic—”
“Just my girls,” the countess interrupted, her voice somehow hot and cold at the same time. “I will speak with Sophie alone.”
Sophie gulped and tried to bring her eyes to the countess’s, but she only made it as far as her chin. As Miss Timmons ushered Rosamund and Posy out of the room she stood up, awaiting further direction from her father’s new wife.
“I know who you are,” the countess said the moment the door clicked shut.
“M-my lady?”
“You’re his bastard, and don’t try to deny it.”
Sophie said nothing. It was the truth, of course, but no one had ever said it aloud. At least not to her face.
The countess grabbed her chin and squeezed and pulled until Sophie was forced to look her in the eye. “You listen to me,” she said in a menacing voice. “You might live here at Penwood Park, and you might share lessons with my daughters, but you are nothing but a bastard, and that is all you will ever be. Don’t you ever, ever make the mistake of thinking you are as good as the rest of us.”
Sophie let out a little moan. The countess’s fingernails were biting into the underside of her chin.
“My husband,” the countess continued, “feels some sort of misguided duty to you. It’s admirable of him to see to his mistakes, but it is an insult to me to have you in my home—fed, clothed, and educated as if you were his real daughter.”
But she was his real daughter. And it had been her home much longer than the countess’s.
Abruptly, the countess let go of her chin. “I don’t want to see you,” she hissed. “You are never to speak to me, and you shall endeavor never to be in my company. Furthermore, you are not to speak to Rosamund and Posy except during lessons. They are the daughters of the house now, and should not have to associate with the likes of you. Do you have any questions?”
Sophie shook her head.