Page 27 of A Secret Infatuation
“Magnificent,” she breathed.
“It is, isn’t it?” Mr. Harwood had come beside her, and leaned in to speak. He appeared to be the only one who heard her. She turned and sent him a shy smile.
All of the guests had arrived by then, and Mrs. Taylor called everyone over, directing them where to sit on the rugs that had been spread out. The other guests all seemed to be particular friends of Mrs. Taylor, while the younger guests had come at Mr. Grantly’s invitation. At some distance was a family with children and another young couple who were not attached to their party.
“Lady Sophia, why don’t you sit on this rug with Lady Camilla on your right?” Mrs. Taylor was momentarily distracted by a servant gesturing to one of the footmen that carried bottles of wine. In the distraction, Robert took the opportunity to sit on her other side. Sophia’s mood sank at the knowledge that she would have to endure his company throughout the meal.
Mrs. Taylor turned back and saw what had transpired. With a firm smile and shake of her head, she said, “Mr. Cunningworth, I had quite pictured you here on this side next to Miss Mowbray. Pierce, you may sit next to Lady Camilla, and Mr. Harwood you must take this place here.”
Sophia tried to show indifference when he sat next to her, but it was difficult. She was astonished that things could turn out so favorably for her after all, for that never happened. She glanced at Marie to see if she was disappointed, but her friend was too good-natured to show it. Instead, she began to draw Robert into cheerful conversation. He grumbled an opinion about matrons with high-handed ways, but Marie was charming enough to turn his mood in a different direction.
Camilla sat with her feet tucked behind her, leaning on one arm. She looked up at her neighbor with a bland expression. “Mr. Grantly, I regret that you are obliged to sit at my side. We shall hope that you might be spared from having to partner with me afterward should there be any games.”
Sophia could not believe what she was hearing and looked at her sister in horror. One did not provoke a person like that, even one whose manner was not particularly cordial. Mr. Harwood quickly averted his face, and she could only conclude he thought ill of her sister. Would he also think ill of her?
Mr. Grantly furrowed his brows, his color rising. “I cannot divine what you mean, Lady Camilla.”
She smiled at him, appearing as complacent as if they were discussing the weather. “It is only that you were bent on escaping having to accompany me to the opera, and the fact that you should now be relegated to spending the afternoon at my side seems like a cruel and unjust punishment. Not that you will need to stay with me for the whole picnic, mind you, for I am sure I will wish to go walking.”
“Camilla,” Sophia murmured, anxious about what Mr. Grantly must think, her own cheeks seared with embarrassment.
“I assure you, Lady Camilla, I am not looking for an excuse to escape from you.” This was said stiffly, and Sophia feared he was offended beyond repair.
“Thank you. But I give you leave to do so should you wish it.”
Mr. Harwood leaned in to whisper, “Your sister is amusing.”
She turned to him in surprise and saw his eyes twinkling with humor. So he had not turned away in dislike?
“Do you think so? I fear she has offended him.”
“If he had a better sense of humor, he would see she was giving him back his own for snubbing her in your drawing room,” he said quietly. When their regard held for seconds longer than what was casual, her breath seemed to disappear.
A servant brought dishes over to where they sat, placing them in the center of their blanket, then returned to bring more. There were small sandwiches, meat pies, slabs of ham, fruits, cheeses, sweetmeats, and a beautiful array of tarts for them to choose from. More servants did likewise for the other guests. Once everything had been brought, Mr. Harwood prepared a plate of choice items—a sandwich, some cheese, a fruit tart. Sophia eyed it, thinking that these were just the sorts of things she particularly liked and wondered if he was preparing it for her. Across from her, Robert was doing the same, but in a more hurried manner than Mr. Harwood. He heaped the plate to overflowing for Marie, then stood and brought it to Sophia instead. Her mouth fell open in dismay. How could he do this when Marie was his seated companion?
She was obliged to speak. “Thank you.”
When Mr. Harwood turned back, he saw the heaping plate in front of her and glanced down at his own. “I see that you have already been served, my lady.”
“Zealously,” she murmured under her breath, but Mr. Harwood shot her a look of amusement, showing he had heard it. Robert filled another plate, this time for Marie, who took it with thanks and acted as though he had served her first. Marie was so good.
Mr. Harwood put his plate to his side, saying quietly, “This was meant for you.”
“I fear this one might be too much for me,” she murmured, nudging her plate in his direction. He smiled and took a sandwich from it. She was careful to choose something from the plate Robert had prepared for her, so as not to offend him. Then she took something from Mr. Harwood’s offering, relieved that the tense moment had passed.
The conversation grew easier as everyone enjoyed the delicacies. Even Camilla and Mr. Grantly spoke more naturally, and she asked him questions about his father’s estate that he seemed to enjoy answering. Sophia was content to listen and enjoy the feeling of the sun on what was proving to be a most agreeable afternoon. The weather was balmy, and the only young women present were ones she was close to. She even had the privilege of sitting next to Mr. Harwood, enjoying simple, cheerful exchanges of absolutely no consequence that made her feel they could truly be friends. That he had passed from the phase of someone she loved from a distance—for no more rhyme or reason than a bolt from the heavens—to a friend whose qualities she could say she was coming to know.
Afterward, by general consensus, the younger set decided to walk about the hill. It was not cold, by any means, but at this height the wind picked up. Sophia, having worn a favorite bonnet decorated with flowers and ribbons, had not considered that as they were not well attached, it was a poor choice for the excursion. Just as she was thinking this, one of the small decorative flowers attached to a ribbon was caught by the wind and flew away. She saw a glimpse of the red from the corner of her eye and ran after it, but Mr. Harwood was quicker. He darted ahead, giving her a glimpse of his athletic form which she would tuck away in her memory for later. The wind brought the flower directly into the path of a bush, where it caught. He seized it, and walked back to her, holding it up with a grin. She could not help but smile at his triumphant expression.
Robert intercepted their path from the right. “Good, you’ve caught it. Hand it over, Harwood. I will tie it back on her bonnet.”
“It is not necessary,” Sophia tried to say, but her words carried no weight against Robert’s determination. Mr. Harwood could do nothing against Robert’s demand and the sight of his imperious hand reaching for the flower.
Robert, with flower now in hand, bore down upon Sophia, and she stood still as he attempted to tie it back onto her bonnet. She could feel his fingers, clumsy and ineffective, as she stayed prisoner to his unwelcome ministrations.
Camilla walked over and held out her hand. “Mr. Cunningworth, I helped trim this bonnet, so I know the trick of getting it to stay. May I?” He looked relieved and handed it to her, stepping away. Marie, ever diplomatic, pulled both him and Mr. Harwood into conversation, and Camilla leaned in to whisper, “This flower won’t be attached without needle and thread, but I will hide it. He might have stayed here forever otherwise.” Sophia sent her a grateful smile, ready to hug her.
Mrs. Taylor called them over to where a stool was being set up between blankets and an older woman was opening a wooden box with paper, charcoal, and scissors.
