Miss Sophie's Secret by Fran Baker

at her dowdy walking dress and raised his eyes to consider her face. His brows rising sharply, he stopped in his tracks.
    “Albert,” she breathed.
    His gaze moved to Vaile’s old carriage.
    “Albert!” she repeated, this time loudly enough for him to hear her.
    For a moment he hesitated. Then his mouth tightened, and turning away, he strode off rapidly in the opposite direction. His companion, momentarily at a loss, stared after his friend in confusion, then turned back to peer curiously at Sophie. Finally he collected his wits and scampered off in pursuit of De Lisle. To Sophie’s surprise, Lady Biskup chuckled.
    “But he recognized me, Aunt Ruth,” she said, her chin trembling. “He deliberately cut us, just as Lady Englewood did.”
    “Yes,” Lady Biskup agreed in a lowered voice. “But don’t speak of it here. Be patient.”
    Sophie was silent. Her throat constricted so tightly she could hardly swallow as the footman assisted her into the carriage and the coachman set his team in motion.
    “I don’t understand,” she whispered as the coach lurched forward.
    “No,” Lady Biskup agreed. “But in time you shall.”
    * * * *
    During the journey home, Sophie bit her lips and forced the tears back, as she knew Lady Biskup had little patience with self-pity. By the time they reached Vaile House, her head was aching and her eyes stung. She had hoped to find Jonathan there—it would have been a great comfort to pour out her troubles into his ear. He would have reassured her gently, she was confident. But to her consternation she was informed by Leeds that Master Jonathan had gone out. He had left word that he would not be home until dinner, as he was off in search of a carriage works where he meant to order a new conveyance for her ladyship.
    Pressing a handkerchief over her mouth to stifle a sob, Sophie scurried up the stairs to her bedroom. She was sitting at her dressing table, giving vent to her misery, when Anna entered the room through a small side door.
    “’Ere, ’ere now, miss,” she protested. “No more o’ this! You’ll spoil yer complexion afore yer first party. Tsk, tsk. Sure, our loss o’ Lord Reginald be dreadful—”
    “No, you don’t understand,” Sophie insisted. “I’m not crying for the Priory, nor even Lord Reginald. I’ve had the most upsetting experience today.”
    As Sophie spoke, the maid raised her head, removed the pins from her hair, and gently began to brush out the curls.
    “I still cannot believe it,” Sophie went on. “I have met Albert de Lisle on the street—my own dearest love these past four years—and he has chosen not to recognize me.”
    Anna’s hand hesitated halfway down a stroke, and then resumed brushing more forcefully. “Well, indeed, an’ woot could he ’a been aboot? Takin’ such airs, an’ ’im no more’n a pauper wi’ a title no better’n naught. ’E should throw ’isself at yer feet.”
    By this time she was stroking so vigorously that Sophie had to put up her hand and catch the girl by the wrist.
    “Please, Anna, I’ll not have a single hair left on my head.”
    “Sorry, miss,” the maid said, abating her ardor. “But truly, Miss Sophie, put ’im oot o’ yer mind an’ turn to them as worth yer notice.”
    Sophie sighed. “Not easily done, Anna. For four years I’ve thought of nothing but the day when I should meet Albert again. In my dreams I’ve slipped my hand through his arm and strolled endless imaginary miles under leafy bowers . . . weak with happiness. It is all I have ever required of life.” The tears spilled out onto her cheeks again. “The truth of the matter is that I love him with all my heart and can never love another.”
    “Nonsense!” Anna sputtered, giving her brush an emphatic jerk through her mistress’s locks. “Forget ’im, miss! There be oondreds finer.”
    Sophie put a hand to her aching scalp. “None handsomer, though, I swear. His eyes are even bluer and more beautiful than I