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The Secret Lover
by Julia London
Dell, 2002
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Chapter
One
1844
Lillehallen
The Hills above Christiania, Norway
It
had been eight years since she had fled England and had forced the memory of
that life from her mind like a bad dream.
Eight years.
Sophie shook her head, continued slicing carrots. It was impossible to conceive of going back. Impossible. She glanced at Arnaud Bastian again, disbelieving. "You must be mistaken," she said simply.
"I mistake nothing, ma cherie," the insufferable Frenchman crooned as he sidled even closer to the rough, knife-marked table on which Sophie was working. "My heart, it is but tiny pieces when you return to England." He reached for a slice of carrot, snatching it just ahead of Sophie's knife.
"You've obviously drunk too much wine again, Arnaud."
"Non, no wine. Vodka." He reached again, but this time Sophie stopped him with a solid whack of her knife against the tabletop just a fraction of an inch from his fingers.
Arnaud jerked his hand back, stared at her with a look of horror. "Ow! You are cruel to wound me so!"
"Honestly, have you ever considered a career in the theatre?" she asked, and raised her knife again when he attempted to pilfer a mushroom.
His hand wavered uncertainly. "Non?"
"Non."
Arnaud sighed. "Sae la vie," he said cheerfully. "What is this you prepare?"
"Fish stew. All right, Monsieur Bastian, truthfully if you please, did Honorine say she would sail for England?"
Arnaud clucked, adjusted his rumpled, expensive waistcoat just so, and smoothed the curl of what had been, hours earlier, a meticulously styled coif. "Oui," he sniffed in belated response to Sophie's question, and paused to study the contents of her kettle. "I think this is so. Je ne rappel pas."
Of course he would not recall. That would require ability beyond the capacity of what Sophie believed was a pea-sized brain. She put the carrots and mushrooms into the kettle, swatted Arnaud's hand from her bum. "Then perhaps it was just another of your attempts to seduce me."
Arnaud gasped, his hand fluttered to the neckcloth at this throat. "Mademoiselle! Do you accuse me of lying?" he demanded indignantly.
"I do indeed."
"Ieee, how could I lie, ma cherie? My eyes, my ears, my mouth, all of them, filled with dreams of sweet Sofia!"
Filled with dreams of sweet rolls was more like it. Since Arnaud had discovered her ability to cook—something that was valued almost as highly as royal lineage among the French expatriates living in Norway—he had sought her out daily, sometimes begging marriage, sometimes simply demanding salmon in crème sauce. Today his poetic wailing earned him nothing more than an exasperated snort as she put the lid on the kettle.
It certainly wasn't the first time Sophie had been the recipient of such false ardor from one of Honorine's discarded lovers. Really, it seemed that a man's self-esteem was awfully large and fragile, and when Honorine refused to succumb to a man's unwanted attentions, they all seemed compelled to look to the nearest female on whom they might test their charms and assure themselves it was still intact. More often than not, that female was her, seeing as how they were practically on the edge of the world here.
She turned away from the kettle to see Arnaud sniffing about the bread she had baked earlier. "Monsieur, be so good as to keep your hands in your pockets, s'il vous plait," she warned him. Arnaud frowned and walked petulantly to the window. He stood pouting and staring out beyond the old walls of Lillehallen as she finished putting the cooking implements away.
"Why do you keep yourself here, away from everyone?" he asked after a few moments, still staring absently out the window. "Look at them now skating. Why do you not join them?"
Because she had joined them last evening, had even enjoyed herself until the early hours of the morning. But as she had never developed the stamina a full night of revelry required—particularly if said revelry was to stretch into the following morning—she had at last retired, exhausted.
That, and she didn't know how to skate.
"Ach, what foolishness," Arnaud said, seeming to read her mind. "Come now, let us attend this skating. This sun, it will make a smile on your face." He very gallantly offered his arm.
Sophie eyed it warily.
Arnaud chuckled. "Mademoiselle! I am a gentleman!"
That was highly debatable, but the stew was underway, and what little remained Hulda would see to when she returned from the Christiania market. Besides, Sophie would delight in hearing the jest from Honorine's lips at the same moment as Arnaud. This silliness, this insanity of sailing to England was just that, a jest, said simply to annoy Arnaud, because the man quite feared being left alone in Norway for reasons that were entirely unclear to Sophie.
The weak sun could not take the chill from the air, and Sophie was already freezing when she arrived on the banks of the pond a dozen steps ahead of Arnaud's wandering hands. Honorine, bundled in a bright red and purple cloak, her long, silver-streaked hair unbound, skated awkwardly, her arms held out, whirling furiously when she felt her balance slipping. Fabrice, her sometimes butler, skated expertly, his arms clasped behind his back as he twirled effortlessly around her. Roland, Honorine's mysterious vintner-without-a-vineyard, skated well, too, but was more interested at the moment in racing furiously across the pond than attempting the same finesse as Fabrice. The rest of the party skated sedately, as if out on a Sunday stroll of sorts, smiling and waving at Sophie as they glided past.
She watched them for a moment, noticed that the ice looked rather thin in some spots.
"Sofia! Aha, you will join us again!" called one of Honorine's more frequent guests.
"Oui, Monsieur Fabre, for the moment."
Monsieur Fabre laughed before an unexpected hiccup surprised him and sent him reeling backwards.
"Sophia, bien-aimee, come and sit beside me!" urged Madam Riveau, who was, unquestionably, the largest human Sophie had ever seen. She sat on the banks with her hat cocked at an awkward angle, her fur coat a mountain around her. As she leaned over to pat the blanket beside her, she very nearly rolled onto her side like an egg. "Come!" she called brightly.
Not on Sophie's life—Madam Riveau had the uncommon capacity to talk until each star fell from the sky without so much as taking a breath—in French and English. "Thank you, Madam Riveau, but I must speak with Honorine. Monsieur Bastian would sit beside you and keep your company," she said, suppressing a smile at Arnaud's grumbling. But he fell dutifully in a heap next to Madam Riveau and reached for her wine bottle as the woman snuggled close to him.
Sophie returned her attention to the skaters. "Honorine!" she called.
Honorine, moving more confidently now, glided in the general direction of Sophie, but at the last moment, merely waved and went round again.
Obstinate woman. "Honorine! Come round, would you?"
This time Honorine simply laughed.
With a sigh of exasperation, Sophie put her hands on her hips. "Hon-o-rine!"
"Mon dieu! Que desirez-vous?"
"I would like a word, if you please!"
Honorine grumbled something loudly beneath her breath, but started forcefully toward the bank with one good push, hurtling forward, her arms held straight out.
Thankfully, she somehow managed to stop herself before mowing Sophie down. But standing in one place on skates was something she clearly had not mastered; her feet moved backward and forward, and she shot her arms out for balance as necessary. "A word, a word! Then speak, will you?" she demanded as Fabrice sailed by, skating backwards.
"Arnaud said you intend to sail for England soon."
Honorine cocked her head to one side. "Does he?" she asked, then shook her head, made a clucking sound as she shifted her gaze to where he was now lying peacefully, his head propped between Madam Riveau's enormous breasts. "Imbecile."
An unexpected wave of relief swept over Sophie; she laughed a little too anxiously. "Honestly, I can scarcely believe what outrageous things the man will say to gain attention."
"Oui, it is too much."
"I am so foolish to listen to him!"
"It is he who is foolish. I did not say soon."
That brought Sophie up short. "I beg your pardon? What exactly does that mean?"
Fabrice sailed by again, only with Roland this time and so close that Honorine moved suddenly, whirling her arms to keep her balance. "This means for England we sail in the late spring. This is not soon, oui? Arnaud, he embellishes too much."
Sophie gaped at Honorine. It was impossible. Inconceivable! Yet Honorine simply stood there, looking for all the world like she had announced only that they might stroll to market. In the last seven years, she had never expressed a desire for England! Rome, Madrid, Stockholm, yes! But England? She could not possibly expect Sophie to return to England!
Honorine smiled.
Sophie forced herself to take a breath. A very deep breath.
All right, all right, perhaps Honorine didn't expect her to travel to England with her, of course she didn't. She obviously meant to leave Sophie behind, at Chateau la Claire, her sister's home. Yes, yes, of course! She intended to go for a holiday of sorts while Sophie remained with Eugenie!
"Close your mouth, Sofia—a bird should make his nest there."
"You might have at least mentioned your intent to take a holiday," she said irritably.
"I tell you now, cherie. It is magnifique, non? Many years, they come, they go since I have seen my London."
My London?
"And it is very cold here."
"All right. I understand. I shall go to Eugenie, of course," Sophie said. "How long do you intend to be away?"
Honorine laughed, whirled her arms again. "Foolish girl! I do not leave you to Louis Renault! You come to London too!"
Oh God. Oh god oh god.
"London!" spat Roland as he sailed past, arm-and-arm with Fabrice. "A dirty city!"
"J'adore London," Honorine curtly informed him over her shoulder.
Disbelief almost choked Sophie. Honorine had not been to London in more than fifteen years, she had told Sophie this herself when she had engaged her as a companion seven years ago. "But…but you scarcely remember London!" she insisted.
Honorine shrugged, shot one arm wide and down again. "I wish to see it again."
Sophie did not like this sudden change of plans—she liked it here the hills overlooking Christiania! Norway was perfect for her—far away, obscure—"I cannot go to England, least of all London, Honorine!" she exclaimed as Fabrice and Roland twirled behind Honorine and glided away.
"Ach," Honorine said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
"I cannot!"
"Pourquoi?" Honorine demanded, as if she hadn't the vaguest idea why, watching as Fabrice executed a perfect twist in the air, landing gracefully on one leg. "Ooh, tres bien!" she called out to him.
"Because," Sophie said low, ignoring Fabrice and staring pointedly at Honorine. The woman knew her entire history, knew of the whole sordid scandal that had taken her from England in the first place. How could she suggest Sophie return?
Honorine shrugged. "Because? This is all you say?"
"Because? Because of the scandal!" Sophie whispered hotly, wanting very much at that moment to put her hands around Honorine's neck and squeeze tightly.
"Only that?" Honorine snorted at the same moment Monsieur LaForge suddenly went down behind her, one leg through the ice.
"Only that?" Sophie fairly shrieked.
Honorine bent once to touch her toes, then with arms akimbo, glided backwards, oblivious as her guests rushed to where Monsieur LaForge was half submerged in the pond's icy waters. "But the smell of l'printemps is in this air, non? I do not want this Norway. It is too cold!"
"The smell of spring is most certainly not in the air!" Sophie snapped, folding her arms across her middle, only vaguely aware that Fabrice, Roland and Monsieur Fabre were using a tree limb to leverage Monsieur LaForge from his icy trap. "And what of Monsieur Kor—"
"Phht," Honorine spat with disgust, and threw up her hand as she turned away from Sophie toward the commotion. "How lovely is London now, I remember very well," she continued, idly watching the rescue of Monsieur LaForge, who had now managed to get both his legs into the hole and was clinging to the limb for dear life. "We shall wear our new chapeau, will we not?"
"No, we will not."
"We shall of course! You must, Sofia, for we cannot here find a man for you."
She would kill her. "I don't want a man, Honorine."
"What is this? Of course you do, all les femmes want this! It is as God made us. We live better and longer with many lovemakings, and besides, you cannot allow this past to rule you always, cherie."
As if she had any choice. As if she hadn't practically been banished from England for what she had done. But that was beside the point. "My brother will not allow it," she insisted as they dragged Monsieur LaForge across the ice.
"Nonsense. He has given this permission," Honorine said, turning carefully to see the rescue. "Ah, poor Monsieur LaForge! This water it is very cold!" she said, and skated off before Sophie could find her tongue to speak, leaving her to stand speechless on the banks of the pond in horrified silence, unwilling, unable to accept this news. It could not be true. It could not be true!
All right—she closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her temples—she was panicking for naught. Even on the very remote possibility Honorine had somehow conjured up the discipline to actually write Julian, was Sophie to have no say in it? Lord God, how did they think she would ever face her old friends? How would she look at members of the haute ton knowing they all knew every sordid little detail of her past? She could not bear it. She could not bear to see the censure in their expressions again. She had lived through her own personal hell in London, and there was nothing in this world that could make her go back.
She watched as Honorine grabbed onto Roland and peered into the hole Monsieur LaForge had created.
She did not want to leave here. She loved the relative obscurity of this place, the fact that they were—all of them, really—a little band of outcasts from society, trapped by their own private scandals at the top of the world. It made them alike, made them less eager to judge one another. They belonged together here. She did not want to leave and she most certainly did not want to go to England.
How ridiculous! Of course she wasn't going back! After eight years, she was not going back! All this preposterous talk was probably something as simple as Honorine misinterpreting some correspondence from Eugenie.
A thought struck her; she blinked, smiled in relief. Yes, of course! That was the problem here—a simple misunderstanding. There could be no other explanation.
Her sense of direction tentatively restored, Sophie picked up her skirts and marched from the gathering, ignoring Arnaud's call to come back and skate.
