The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer Page B

at the balls in Brussels last year. Was he not attached to Sir Charles Stuart in some capacity or another?”
    “One of his secretaries, but Augustus is a poet, and of course he has no head for business, or affairs, which is a circumstance that disgusts Charles more than all the rest, I believe! Oh, Sophy, when we met—it was at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, and I was wearing a gown of palest blue satin, embroidered all over with silken rosebuds, and knots of silver twist—we no sooner saw each other than—he has assured me that it was the same with him! How could I suppose that there would be the least objection? The Fawnhopes, you know! I daresay they have been here since the Conquest, or some such thing! If I do not care a button for such things as fortunes or titles, what concern is it of Charles’s?”
    “None at all,” said Sophy briskly. “Dear Cecilia, don’t cry, I beg of you! Only tell me this! Does your mama dislike the notion of your marrying Mr. Fawnhope?”
    “Dearest Mama has such sensibility that I know she must feel for me!” declared Cecilia, obediently drying her eyes. “She has as good as told me so, but she dare not withstand Charles! That, Sophy, is what governs all in this house!”
    “Sir Horace is always right!” declared Sophy, rising, and shaking out her skirts. “I teased him to take me to Brazil, you know, because, to own the truth, I could not imagine how I should contrive to occupy myself in London, with nothing to do but amuse myself in my aunt’s house! He assured me that I should find something to be busy with, and you see that he had gauged the matter exactly! I wonder if he knew of all this? My dear Cecilia—oh, may I call you Cecy instead? Cecilia! Such a mouthful! Only trust me! You have fallen into a fit of despondency, and there is not the least need! In fact, nothing could be more fatal, in any predicament! It encourages one to suppose that there is nothing to be done, when a little resolution is all that is wanted to bring matters to a happy conclusion. I must go to my room, and dress for dinner, or I shall be late, and there is nothing more odious than a guest who comes late to meals!”
    “But, Sophy, what can you possibly mean?” gasped Cecilia. “What can you do to help me?”
    “I have not the least notion, but I daresay a hundred things. Everything you have told me shows me that you are fallen, all of you, into a shocking state of melancholy! Your brother! Good gracious, what were you about to let him grow into such a tyrant? Why, I would not permit even Sir Horace to become so dictatorial, which is a thing the best of men will do, if the females of their families are so foolish as to encourage them! It is not all good for them, besides making them such dead bores! Is Charles a dead bore? I am sure he must be! Never mind! If he has a fancy for making eligible matches he shall look about him for a husband for me, and that will divert his mind. Cecy, do come with me to my bedroom! Sir Horace desired me to choose mantillas for you and my aunt, and I daresay Jane will have unpacked them by now. How clever it was of me to have selected a white one for you! I am by far too brown-complexioned to wear white, but you will look enchantingly in it!”
    She then swept Cecilia off to her own room, where she found the mantillas, carefully wrapped in silver paper, one of which she instantly carried to Lady Ombersley’s dressing room, declaring that Sir Horace had charged her to present it, with his love, to his dear sister. Lady Ombersley was delighted with the mantilla, a particularly handsome black one; and much touched (as she afterward told Cecilia) by the message that went with it, not one word of which did she believe, but which showed, she said, such thoughtful delicacy in her niece.
    By the time Sophy had changed her traveling dress for an evening gown of pale green crape, festooned at the bottom with rich silk trimmings, and confined at the waist with a cord and