She lifted Jonathon’s hat from the rack by the door and set it atop his head, smiling up at him. She patted it firmly. “Goodbye, dear Jon!” she declared.
Her mother would have been quite proud to see how well she kept her calm.
She opened the door wider, barely restraining herself from shoving him out into the street and rushing up the stairs. She was suddenly eager to begin preparations.
Her parents would be in Paris until the end of the month. By the time they returned, it would be too late to stop her. She was no longer a child and she certainly had every right to deal with her fiancé any way she felt appropriate—even if it wasn’t quite appropriate.
Jonathon took a step out the door, then stepped back over the threshold, barring her from closing the door. “B-But if your father isn’t here, Sophia, then perhaps I should stay! To be certain you don’t become too disheartened.”
Sophie pushed him gently out the door. “No, but thank you!”
Harold, God bless him, made himself known in that instant, standing like a sentinel at the end of the hall. He said nothing but cleared his throat discreetly, and Jonathon remembered himself at once.
“Goodbye!” she said firmly when he opened his mouth to protest.
“Yes... very well, then... goodbye,” he stammered, and left at last.
Sophie slammed the door behind him. She turned to lean against it and in an instant of weakness, tears pricked at her eyes as she clutched the letter. She felt ill-used and trampled, but she refused to feel this way for long.
Harold stood looking at her with his hands behind his back.
“If I may be so bold to say so, Miss Sophia, I have never liked that young man!”
She smiled gently at him. “I know. That will be all, Harold,” she said, dismissing him. When he was gone, she hurried up the stairwell.
The one thing she had determined long ago was that one could lose anything at all—anything, except one’s pride—and come back relatively unscathed. She wasn’t about to carry this scar throughout her lifetime, only to end up bitter and alone at fifty and stealing brandy from her father’s cabinets.
No, that wouldn’t do.
She went to her room, closing the door behind her. It was meticulous, except for the drawings posted everywhere—on the dresser mirror, on the walls. They were her drawings, and much to her mother’s dismay, she hung them everywhere. It was Sophie’s one small rebellion, but she was proud of every sketch and couldn’t bring herself to bury them in a closet or in a drawer.
Sophie never drew things as they actually appeared. She never truly saw anything the way others did. Everyone—every thing—had a soul, and she felt it her mission to capture its essence in her sketches.
She made her way to her dresser, and touched a finger to a sketch of her mother she had posted there. Unfortunately, sometimes her portraits weren’t particularly flattering. She smiled to herself at the memory of her mother’s expression when she’d first gazed upon her portrait. Poor dear, she’d practically fainted at the sight of it. Sophie had sketched her mother’s eyes abnormally large, because she was ever vigilant, and often affronted. And her mouth was big as well, and her ears... and her nose. Sophie just hadn’t been able to help herself. Her mother seemed to hear everything, smell everything, know everything—or at least she made it a point to try.
Sophie’s sketches would never hang in an art gallery, but she loved them all—from her re-interpretation of the Mona Lisa, with her teeth bared in laughter, to the tiny sketch of her cherished shark’s tooth that hung over her bed like a halo-crowned portrait of the Virgin Mary. Sophie turned to consider the sketch. It was all she had left of the shark’s tooth. Her mother found the tooth one morning and discarded it long before Sophie had awakened—because it wasn’t seemly to play with the dirty teeth of dead animals, she’d been reprimanded.
Sophie still missed her little talisman. In some strange way, the little tooth had embodied all her hopes and dreams—not the ones she had been schooled to, but those she’d tucked away in the farthest reaches of her soul, deep down inside where not a single ray of light could expose their imperfections ... or hers. The truth was that she wasn’t perfect—never would be—and she knew it.
Just once, she wanted someone to look beneath the facade and see all the imperfections ... and cherish her anyway.
She lifted up the portrait from her desk – the one she had sketched of Harlan, touching the chin with a finger. She had drawn him perfectly.
This portrait, along with the only drawing of hers that her mother had hung in the hall, were the only two paintings Sophie had rendered to absolute perfection. Simply titled The Wedding Day, the one in the hall was a storybook picture—her wedding day as Sophie had often envisioned it. Since childhood, her mother had woven every precise detail for her, until the vision had reached an almost sanctified perfection. The pristine white gazebo, decorated with pure snow-white ribbons. The golden rays of sunshine penetrating a vibrant, rich green canopy of trees… shining down on the faceless couple within the gazebo. The rays had been so brilliant as they’d shone on the wedded pair that it had washed away every detail in their faces, rendering them completely without identity.
She sighed. Maybe she’d always known that destiny was not hers.
Glancing first at the letter in her hand, she frowned at the picture she held and then set it back down upon the dresser. Turning it over, she removed the wooden back, and set it, too, down on the dresser. She folded Harlan’s letter neatly and lay it against his portrait, then replaced the back once more. Like everything else in her life, his imperfection was hidden behind an unblemished facade.
She would take the picture with her... to bolster her when she wavered.
But now, it was time to pack! It would behoove her to pack only the most necessary items because she was certain space aboard the Miss Deed would be limited. For money she would sell the necklace Harlan had given her as an engagement present. She might have felt a trifle guilty were it some precious heirloom, but it was merely an expensive token he had purchased, gaudy and ugly. Sophie had never liked it. She could admit that now.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t have funds at her disposal, but she refused to allow her father to bear the burden of this, when it was Harlan who deserved the responsibility. He had taken quite enough from her father—and from her already. Although Sophie couldn’t do anything about the grants or the money, she certainly could recover something of her own!
Pride.
But first things first... she had to find this Jack MacAuley... he held the key to her plan, and she wasn’t about to let him leave harbor without her—even if it meant she had to stow away on his ship! But he wouldn’t turn her down, of that she was certain because Sophie fully intended to give him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
She removed from her drawer a few sheets of paper and a pencil, then sat on the bed. But this time, instead of drawing, she wrote a letter to Harold, explaining to her faithful old servant what she was compelled to do. She’d place it somewhere where he was sure to find it later, after she was gone. Next she wrote a letter to her parents, hoping her sarcasm wouldn’t cause them too much concern, and she felt considerably better when she was through.
It read simply:
Dearest Father and Mother,
Please don’t fret; I’m off to the Yucatan to murder Harlan. Will tell you everything when I return! My love to you both!
And she signed it.
Love and kisses, your devoted daughter Sophia.
Next in the Daughters of Avalon series…
A Winter’s Rose
Don’t miss the next installment in the exciting new Daughters of Avalon series by Tanya Anne Crosby. A Winter’s Rose is now available for preorder.
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Also by Tanya Anne Crosby
A brand-new series
Daughters of Avalon
The King’s Favorite
A Winter’s Rose
; Rhiannon
The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
Lyon’s Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song
MacKinnon’s Hope
Guardians of the Stone
Once Upon a Highland Legend
Highland Fire
Highland Steel
Highland Storm
Maiden of the Mist
The Medievals Heroes
Once Upon a Kiss
Angel Of Fire
Viking’s Prize
The Impostor Series
The Impostor’s Kiss
The Impostor Prince
Redeemable Rogues
Happily Ever After
Perfect In My Sight
McKenzie’s Bride
Kissed by a Rogue
Anthologies & Novellas
Lady’s Man
Married at Midnight
The Winter Stone
Romantic Suspense
Speak No Evil
Tell No Lies
Leave No Trace
Mainstream Fiction
The Girl Who Stayed
The Things We Leave Behind
Redemption Song
Everyday Lies
About the Author
Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.
Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews.
Tanya and her writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised, and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.
For more information
www.tanyaannecrosby.com
tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com