Amberlough(25)

“Sofie,” said Keeler. “My eldest.”

Sofie’s handshake was firm and dry, and she met his gaze. Her eyes were bright hazel, more green than brown, flecked with spots of orange. “Mr. Landseer,” she said. “Mother’s told us so much about you.”

“All of it good, I hope.”

“I’m afraid Loelia was struck with a cold,” said Keeler, “and couldn’t come. Shame, she’s such a charming girl. And my youngest, Jane, is still in school.”

“My sincerest well-wishes for the invalid,” said Cyril. “I’ve only just recovered, myself.”

“Keeler!” Berhooven waved her over to the piano. “Come tell Van der Joost he’s talking rot.”

“Do excuse me.” She swept away in a ripple of navy skirts.

“Poor Mummy,” said Sofie Keeler. “Always called on to defend the ladies when Konrad hares off on one of his screeds.”

“And is that very often?”

She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it. And the absurd thing is, she was raised by a lot of hair-shirted Holy Hearth missionaries at a cloister school in Enselem.” Sofie’s speech was rapid but smooth, rolling in the careless rhythm of privileged gossip: Each word ran into the next as if she expected he already knew what she was going to say. “Half the time, I think she’s quite nearly on his side. Only, if she gave in too easily, you can be sure he’d use it against her. He’s got a lot of clout.” Smirking, she lowered her voice and added, “Even if he does look like a lamprey.”

Their conspiratorial laughter was interrupted by the arrival of the butler, with the dinner announcement. Cyril, to his great delight, was seated with Sofie.

“Newcomer’s privilege,” said Rotherhite. He took the chair at the head of the table, with Van der Joost to his right and Keeler to his left. Berhooven sat at the foot, like a jester.

Rotherhite steered conversation—mostly sports, and his own exotic travels. Berhooven nodded along, occasionally interjecting with his own opinion, which invariably made him, and sometimes the rest of them, laugh. Cyril could tell Berhooven didn’t quite fit here. Even his appearance made him a stranger. He was shorter than his peers, and fatter, with a swarthy complexion and floppy dark curls.

Keeler talked with Van der Joost about business, business, business. Rotherhite picked on her and called her a killjoy, but her icy stare sent him into retreat.

With regret, Cyril saw that his attention to the group dynamics had cost him Sofie’s initial fondness. She toyed with her guinea fowl, pushing a bit of crouton through the raisin sauce. She was thoroughly out of the conversation by the time it swung around to the absent Mijkel Pollerdam, and Cyril asked, “Yes, where is Pollerdam? I was hoping I’d meet him tonight.”

“You’ll very rarely find Pollerdam venturing south of Morray.” Rotherhite dipped his fingers in the pewter bowl offered by a footman. “He spends nearly all his time at his factories.” Morray was a mill town tucked into the foothills of the Culthams, on the border with Farbourgh.

“He prefers more rustic entertainments,” said Berhooven, and Cyril wondered if it was supposed to be a double entendre. No one laughed. “But he’s promised to come down in time for the election.”

“Well, I think it’s admirable.”

The whole table turned to look at Sofie, whose silence had rendered her invisible until then.

“What is, dear?” Van der Joost’s pale eyes stuck to Sofie like barnacles.

“His staying in the north. If he doesn’t enjoy society, why force him? He’s keeping a sharp eye on his means of production, which is more than the rest of us can say.”

“You’ve got a clever daughter, Keeler.” Cyril favored Sofie with a smile at last. She returned it gratefully. “You’re lucky she’ll be here to inherit the family business.”

“Oh, no.” Sofie twirled her fork against her plate, scratching at the china. “I’m afraid it all goes to Steben. Mother thought I might be … overwhelmed.”

“Sofie.” Keeler cast a sharp glance down the table.

Cyril ignored the matron’s censure. “Steben?”

“Loelia’s going to be married in the summer,” said Sofie. “Steben is her intended.”

“And he has a fine head on his shoulders,” said her mother. “He’s just come down from the university at Farbourgh City, with a degree in economics. He’ll be a credit to the Keeler mills.”

“Will he keep the name, do you think?” The venom in Sofie’s voice told Cyril this was an old argument. “Loelia isn’t.”

“Sofie, that’s enough.”

Sofie opened her mouth, but Berhooven cut her off.

“What a spirited young woman,” he said. “Keeler, your supper table must be a lively place. Why don’t you have us all around some time?”

The conversation turned towards memorable past parties. Cyril invented some anecdote about the dreary social scene in the Hellican Islands: “Really,” he said, “I try never to be at home.” Sofie retreated into silence, and maintained it through dessert and coffee.

The party broke up earlier than Cyril was used to. He had already resigned himself to retiring when Berhooven cornered him in the drawing room.