‘There were more calls this afternoon.’ She made a mental note to speak to Cook—the soup had too much pepper. ‘Two more ladies with Company connections, a Mrs Hooper with her daughters—she tells me she is a connection of Papa’s, although I cannot quite work it out—and Lady Constable, who says she was Daniel’s godmother.’
‘Excellent.’ Callum seemed to find the soup acceptable. ‘You see, I said you would manage perfectly well. We will be receiving invitations soon. The ladies have taken to you. Tell me, what have you done for the rest of the time?’
Every evening he would take an interest in the mild excitements of her day—what she had read, where she had shopped, the problems w
ith the kitchen maid and the discovery of mice in the drawing-room skirting. Sophia felt she was being judged, kindly, against an unspoken standard of Suitable Wife and, on the whole, being found acceptable. But she did not mention her drawings, or tell Callum about them; that, she sensed, would not be considered acceptable. Still lives and landscapes, yes. Sharp, unflattering little portraits of his acquaintance, no.
She did her best to reciprocate in these conversations. She studied the newspapers carefully, borrowed books from the circulating library on trade and India and China and asked about his work. It seemed a very responsible one, forming the medium-term strategy for the luxury goods that the company handled.
‘It is an uphill struggle to convince some of the members of the Company to make any changes, though,’ Callum confessed with a wry smile. ‘They have a pet supplier or a favourite kind of produce and that is that—to try to convince them that to load their ships with tea rather than silk at a particular time or to hold back on a certain product because the market will soon be amply supplied and the price will fall, is like pushing against a door that is jammed shut.’
‘So how do you do it?’ Sophia asked, her embroidery left untouched in her lap. This, to her, was far more interesting than what was in the newspapers, not for itself exactly, but for the way it gave her an insight into Callum’s thinking.
‘Like a military campaign. I plot the weakest points, see where the tactical advantage lies, decide where it is prudent to retreat—I seem to be doing a lot of tactical retreating just at the moment.’ But he smiled as he said it and she laughed and there was a moment when she wanted to reach out and touch his hand, link her fingers into his long brown ones and tease him a little and just be friends.
Then she saw Callum’s eyes darken and the amusement faded from his face and was replaced by something else that made her breath catch in her throat. Her mouth went dry and all she was conscious of was the urge to cross the narrow space between them, curl up on to his lap and kiss him. But he never kissed her, never caressed her, during the day. Would he think her wanton if she did? Would she be gauche and clumsy? ‘Callum?’
But the moment had passed. He was reaching for his glass of port and his face was once again back to its pleasant, neutral mask. ‘Nothing. Sorry, I must not bore you with this stuff, it can be of no interest to you.’
‘I asked because I am interested,’ Sophia said and bent to bundle her untouched embroidery into the basket at her feet. ‘But it must be tiresome for you to have to explain it to me after you have been immersed in it all day.’
She stood up and Callum got to his feet too. He moved, as always, with the ease that so attracted her and she felt that familiar tug of desire.
‘I think I will go to bed now. Thank you.’ He opened the door for her and she passed through with the sensation of having lost a precious moment of intimacy.
Chapter Thirteen
‘You are looking a trifle peaky, if I might say so, ma’am,’ Chivers remarked as Sophia got out of bed the next morning.
‘That is exactly how I feel, Chivers,’ she admitted as she rubbed the small of her back. ‘Oh, how foolish of me—it is the usual cause!’ She did some rapid mental arithmetic: yes, more or less on time.
At first, as she washed and dressed, she simply registered it as the routine discomfort, then the fact struck her that she was married now and her husband would want to know whether or not she was with child.
It was not a topic for discussion over the breakfast table. Sophia waited until Callum went to his study to gather his papers for work and followed him upstairs, straightening her back against the miserable low ache. He was standing at his desk, bent over the documents spread between his braced hands, but at the sound of the door closing behind her he looked up.
‘Sophia? Is something wrong?’ He was at her side in two long strides and caught her by the shoulders. ‘You are ill?’
She wondered what he saw to make him so concerned; she thought she had schooled her face not to show any discomfort and he had not noticed anything at breakfast, but then he had been engrossed in The Times for most of it. ‘Nothing—except nature taking its course. I thought I should tell you that I am not with child this month.’
‘Not—? Oh, I see. It is of no matter.’
‘Is it not? I thought you were anxious for children, for an heir. It is my duty—’
‘Duty?’ His brows drew together in a sharp, level line. ‘I hope it is more than that—no child deserves to be merely the product of duty.’
‘I did not say that! I would never look upon a child in that way—but I am your wife and you made it clear that you expected me to give you heirs.’
‘I am sorry if I put it so baldly.’ Callum swept the papers together and stuffed them into a folder. ‘I will, naturally, not trouble you until you tell me that it is … convenient for me to visit your chamber again.’
Convenient? Oh, yes, our marital relations are a matter of convenience for you now, not of passion. I suppose I am cheaper than a mistress.
‘How very considerate,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended, and turned to go.
Damn. He had blundered. He was disappointed that Sophia was not with child, but so, no doubt, was she. Cal came round and stood before her, blocking the door. He studied her set face. ‘Are you in discomfort? In pain? You are very pale.’
‘I am sorry, I had not meant to trouble you with it. It is just the usual cramps and backache.’
‘Usual?’ Of course, that feminine mystery that was simply an inconvenience for the men in their lives must be most uncomfortable. He had never thought of it. ‘You must remember I have no experience of these feminine matters—no sisters to grow up with,’ he offered in mitigation. Sophia visibly bit back a comment and Callum could not help but smile. ‘And, no, my mistresses would vanish discreetly for however long it took.’ He took her arm and gently urged her into a comfortable chair. He wanted to help her, but this was an intimate secret and he had done nothing to make such confidences easy, he knew that. He kept hold of her hand. ‘Tell me how it hurts.’