Chapter 4

Mrs. Twisden was roused from a troubled slumber to receive the doctor's second visit since she'd fallen ill. After she had submitted to his ministrations, the doctor met Sophie outside of her grandmother's room. His grave expression caused her heart to seize.

"Well, Monsieur Pichon, how is my grand-mère?"

He shook his head soberly, then adjusted his wig. "She has caught an inflammation of the lungs, which is injurious for a woman of any age and may prove fatal at hers. I believe you should begin making preparations."

She stared at him blankly, and though she refused to understand his meaning, her limbs grew cold. "Preparations?"

"It is always wise to prepare for the worst, mademoiselle." He reached for the hat that Mary handed him and put it on his head. "At a time when a nation's king falls ill and dies, it very often provokes a like-minded response in the more sensitive of women. Their very natural outpouring of grief will take on a more sinister form, leading to an unhappy ending."

"I assure you, Monsieur Pichon, my grandmother is suffering from no such thing. She has only arrived in Paris the day before yesterday." Sophie followed him to the door, unable to keep the astringency from her reply.

"Ah, with her level of French so superior—and yours as well. I had thought… But then it was certainly her journey that has fatigued her to the point of ill health. As I have already advised, you would do well to make preparations for the worst."

That was enough. Sophie welcomed the anger that rose up against his morbid predictions, for she could not bear to succumb to fear. Her grandmother simply must come through this.

She offered the doctor a tight smile by way of answer and held the door for him to leave, waving Mary away. She wanted to be the one to put the harbinger of gloom firmly on the other side of it.

"Can you believe this man?" she asked Mary as soon as he had left. "Much good his learning has done him if all he can do is to put on a long face and attempt no remedy that doesn't involve cupping."

"I could see you were not best pleased, miss, but as I can make out nothing of what he says…it is only a bunch of gibble-gabble to me. What did the sawbones say?"

"It is not worth repeating, but I shall have to find another doctor nearby. Or wanting that, an apothecary." She clenched her fists tight. "Oh, but it is frustrating to be in a foreign city when there is a particular need—and I with limited means in finding a solution."

A knock sounded on the door, and Mary went past her to open it. It occurred to Sophie a moment too late that it would likely be Sheldon, the very last person she wished to see.

"Ah, Mary. Here is my hat. Sophie." Sheldon glided forward and held her hand firmly in his, patting it and offering her a fulsome look, which caused his chin to quiver. She slipped her hand from his, accepting the inevitable.

"Please, join me in the sitting room. Mary, you may bring us some tea, if you please."

The maid dipped a curtsy for Sheldon's sake and disappeared, leaving Sophie to entertain her unwelcome visitor.

When he had settled himself comfortably, he looked around the room with a critical air at the simple furnishings. Then he turned to meet her regard. "What did Moe-syur Pichon say?"

"The most outlandish thing," she retorted, her fire returning at the memory. "He said to prepare for the worst." She clamped her lips shut to ward off the inexplicable urge to cry. "Grandmama is unwell, but it's just a slight fever and cough, for heaven's sake. I would much rather he bring her medicine than offer a lugubrious prognosis."

"Ah, but Sophie, you can know nothing of the matter. Although he is French, he is a doctor—and a man—and as such must have more knowledge of her true situation than you could guess at. I am sure you might trust what he says."

After a quick glance at the open door and the empty corridor beyond it, he turned his gaze back to her. "I know we have not yet discussed the matter openly, but I believe we should announce our betrothal early on in our stay in Paris to avoid confusion. I've seen the way that French marquess thinks to make you the object of his attention, and it would be well for him to know you are already spoken for."

Betrothal? Sophie's eyes grew large, and she could feel the color shoot up to her hairline. "I beg your pardon, but there is no betrothal to announce, for you have not asked but only hinted, and I have certainly given you neither a positive answer, nor even encouragement."

"Ah." He leaned forward on the chair, and in doing so managed to encroach upon her space without being within arm's length.

"Then let me waste no time in making my intentions clear, Sophie. I have expressed them often enough to your grandmother and have found her receptive to the idea. Therefore, you could surely have no objections." He planted his elbows on his knees and opened his palms. "Naturally, I assumed you and she had spoken of it and that the matter was understood, but that your maidenly sensitivity hindered you from revealing your own wishes."

Sophie stood, causing Sheldon to scramble to his feet. "I assure you my maidenly sensitivity would not lead me to offer you false hope. My grandmother has spoken of her wishes to see me avoid a life of reduced means by entering into an advantageous match. But she knows—for I have told her—that I cannot entertain the notion of an alliance where my affections are not engaged."

Sheldon frowned and a sudden flush caused his pointed nose to turn red. "Choosing to marry for affection is not something I hold to, you must know. It is a modern notion and has nothing to recommend it. Marriage is best brought about when a man has thought through the advantages and draws up the contract with a sober and steady mind."

At this, Sophie's lip twitched. Despite the dreadful timing of the proposal and her worry for her grandmother, the complete lack of finesse by her would-be intended provoked an inappropriate desire to laugh. It was either that or burst into a fit of melancholy, and she had no wish to appear weak. She took a brief moment to marshal her thoughts before the obvious struck her.

"But what do you hope to gain from the match, Sheldon? You say you enter into it with a cool head, but you know very well I bring no dowry. How can you claim that this is an advantageous match for you? I can see none."

She seemed to have hit home a point because he looked confused for a moment. It was brief, however, before his natural pomposity regained itself. He stretched his chin up as though to loosen a constricting cravat.

"Well…" He cleared his throat. "At times, a gentleman might propose for noble reasons—to save a woman from an uncomfortable fate. That, too, is a rational decision."

"That is most noble, I assure you," Sophie answered, eager to make herself very clear. "Since you have proposed in such an altruistic manner, allow me to repay your kindness in the most charitable way I can. That is to reject your generous proposal for the simple reason that I feel we should not suit. To avoid further discomfort, I wish you will say no more on the topic."

"I believe your rejection is too hastily given, and you would do well to lend my proposal more consideration." Sheldon stopped short and looked toward the corridor, where Sophie heard the sounds of the tea cups being set on the tray.

She went over to shut the door. Mary would know not to enter with the door closed, and Sophie had only one objective, which was to cut short Sheldon's stay. She was soon grateful for having done so, for she would not like her grandmother to have overheard the rest.

"We are here in Paris because of my willingness to provide escort for the journey. We are both aware that you and your grandmother could not otherwise have come. I undertook this journey with the understanding that marriage was a settled thing between us, Sophie. But I must warn you, I should not be comfortable staying in this dreadful city if I learn we are not to be married after all. And you will not find it an easy thing to remain here without me, or even to return to London, without my help to ease your way."

"I am glad we understand each other," she replied, her temper rising. "You require that I marry you if I do not wish to be left completely to my own devices with Grandmama sick and few friends in the city?"

He drew himself up stiffly. "I did not quite say that. I have an esteem for your grandmother. I wish for her to be well. I will not abandon you here without offering some assistance, but I most certainly will not remain the length of our intended stay. You would do well to reflect on this before you reject my proposal in such definitive terms."

Sheldon's face was visibly red around his jowls, and he walked toward the door to the sitting room. Before he opened it, he turned back to face her with a stiff bow.

"I will bid you good day."

"Good day," Sophie mumbled, grasping at the most basic courtesy. Her fears for her grandmother, made worse by the doctor's dire prognosis, had made it difficult to greet Sheldon's unwanted and ill-timed marriage proposal with any degree of civility.

She sat suddenly as Mary brought the tray in.

"He didn't stay long."

"I encouraged his early departure," Sophie replied. "Mary, come and sit. You may share some of my tea. We are too humble a household to stand upon ceremony, and this is an unusual situation we are in, living as we do, far from England."

Mary sat quietly on the edge of the chair, clearly ill at ease with the notion, and waited while Sophie poured the tea. They each drank without speaking. Sophie was worried, and Mary was wise enough not to fill the silence with empty talk.

"Do you think my grandmother is in a very bad state?" Sophie asked her.

Mary thought for a moment, clasping her strong fingers over a worn apron. "She's not fallen ill like this before in England. I don't know if it's the dirty city we're living in or the long voyage that provoked it, but I admit to having some cause for worry."

Sophie nodded. She had attempted to force her thoughts into a more positive direction ever since she'd brought her grandmother home the night before, but she could not help but feel anxious. Her grandmother was her only family; and in some ways, Mrs. Twisden's protection and good name had kept at bay the necessity for Sophie to choose between marriage, finding a position somewhere, or settling on the small property she had inherited with scarcely the means to live upon it. For Sophie, this visit to Paris was supposed to be her last moment of lightheartedness before she would be forced to think about her future. Now, even this was being cut short in the direst way. She had not even seriously contemplated what course to follow.

Another knock sounded at the door, and Sophie shot a dark look at Mary. Sheldon again! He could not leave well enough alone. She put her hand up to the maid, her lips set firmly.

"No, Mary. For once, I will open the door. It is Mr. Cholmsley coming back with more well-meaning advice, and if I was too kind in my refusal before, I will not be so now. I shall send him off in no short order."

"Your grandmother won't like me drinking tea with you and sitting while you open doors. She'll think I've gone above my station, and she'll be right."

Mary's look of distress caused Sophie to soften. "I promise to be mistress of the house again. Just humor me now, for I cannot bear to have him set foot inside for the second time in one day. I will be more effective than you in refusing him admittance."

She strode out of the sitting room and into the corridor, where she opened the front door with more force than was necessary. Outside on the cobblestone street stood Basile Gervain and Zoé Sainte-Croix. Sophie's hand dropped to her side as she stared at them in surprise. Basile extended his leg and bowed, and Zoé curtsied.

At the gesture, Sophie recollected her manners and returned the curtsy, then stepped back. "Forgive me for my lack of a proper welcome. I am only surprised to see you, that is all. But won't you both come in?"

"You are very kind," Zoé replied. "I hope we are not coming at an inopportune time."

"Not at all." Sophie smiled at her and brought her eyes to Basile, touched that he had visited, fearful of what he would think of their humble lodgings. "You are both aware that my grandmother is ill, but she is resting in her room."

"Did you have a doctor come by to look at her?" Basile asked as he followed her and Zoé into the sitting room. Mary was collecting the teapot and cups, and she stopped to curtsy to the visitors before carrying them out of the room.

Sophie watched her go, somewhat at a loss for how she should entertain her guests. "It was a Monsieur Pichon that attended to her, and I almost wish I had not had anyone come. He brought nothing in the way of medicine. At least nothing that I recognized to be beneficial. He bled her and then told me I should prepare for her funeral. If he is to be believed, there is no fear of my appearing at a soirée in colors again, for my entire wardrobe will need to be fitted with blacks before the week is out."

She exhaled audibly, then attempted a smile, which she knew was weak. But if she allowed herself to give way to fears, it would paralyze her for action.

The marquis raised an eyebrow. "I don't know this Monsieur Pichon, but it does not sound as though he was in the slightest bit helpful."

"He most certainly was not." Sophie realized with a start that her guests were still standing, and she gestured to the chairs in a circle around the unused fireplace. "Please have a seat."

She clutched her hands on her lap and found her fingers trembling. Her guests seemed to miss nothing and watched as she slipped her hands to the side underneath her skirts. She smiled as brightly as she could.

"May I offer you something in the way of refreshments?"

They glanced at each other before Zoé replied. "We do not wish to trespass upon your time, not with your grandmother unwell. We merely came to see how we might be of service."

"You are very kind." The gesture was just what she needed, although if Sheldon should make good on his threats, she could hardly ask them for help returning home—or to bury her grandmother should the doctor's grim words come true. "I…I think there is nothing to do at the moment, but your kind solicitation brings me great comfort."

They sat awkwardly, listening to the sounds of the clock ticking in the corner and the muffled noises in the kitchen as Mary began washing dishes. Zoé stood then, and Basile followed.

"I fear we must be on our way, but here is my card," Zoé said. "You may call upon me for anything you might need." She glanced at the marquis, who gave no immediate indication of wishing to leave. At last he nodded and brought his gaze back to Sophie.

She gestured for them to accompany her to the door. How terrible it was. She could not welcome them in a hospitable way as she would have liked. At the moment, they seemed her best hope for friendship in Paris, but with her grandmother as ill as she was, Sophie was likely doomed to spend the whole of her stay here in the apartment, coaxing her back to health. She refused to think of the possibility that her grandmother might die.

This would surely be the last time she would see the marquis and his friend. By the time her grandmother was well, they would likely have forgotten all about her.

When they reached the corridor, Mary was standing with the door open. Zoé retied her bonnet, although she had only just taken it off and stepped out onto the street. Basile turned back to Sophie and caused her heart to grow still by another one of his direct looks.

"I would send you a doctor of my acquaintance if you do not object. He has seen to my mother and sister in the past, and I believe you might trust him."

Sophie could scarcely conceal her surprise. She had suspected Basile was considerate, but as his predominant qualities were ones of humor and mischief, his kindness when it mattered spoke volumes. She managed to articulate her acceptance.

He gave a nod. "As it is late in the day, I will have Monsieur Comble come tomorrow. And then, if you will not find it incommodious, we will visit again the day afterwards to see how your grandmother fares?"

Sophie darted her eyes to Zoé, who was watching Basile with a strange look on her face. She wondered if Zoé loved him—how could she not?—or if they had some sort of an understanding. It would make sense that they did. After all, they were of the same quality, whereas Sophie's family had steadily come down in the world. She dragged her eyes back to Basile and found his still on her.

"I would be most grateful for your kind attention," she replied, forcing herself to look at them both in equal measure. She would not allow either of them to suspect that she might have even the smallest tendre for Basile.

Which of course she did not.