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a foot put wrong. Her husband laughs at the care she takes with such things.
Such a silly little head my Sophie has on her shoulders. Stop worrying so.
They all love us. We’re the life of the party. You don’t have to bring presents
every time to everybody. You don’t have to bring any presents at all.
But Sophia understands in the palest cells of marrow of her bones that
everything she does, from the speed of her gait to the gifts she chooses to
the sway of her hair as she walks down Cedar Drive, reflects upon him.
And they do love him. It’s so easy for him! The way Mrs. Crabbe tries to
look busy to hide her blushing whenever he passes her in the garden on his
way home from the office. The way Mr. Stagg fixes his hair and stands a
little straighter when he ducks into their local for something cold and quiet.
Sophia knows these are treasures that must be protected. She would never
do the smallest thing that might risk how Mrs. Moray’s dark eyes widen and
her breath quickens when she glimpses the two of them strolling through
the market of a Saturday. Heaven forbid. She would rather die.
He will never know how the gentle determination of her carefulness
stokes and keeps the love of their neighbors. He does not need to. Sophia
doesn’t ask for praise or credit. Is he the life of the party? Or is she? Such
questions! The party is alive, that’s what matters. And whichever way one
slices such a rich cake, her company is much in demand. Her social
calendar overflows like a cup of wine. Everyone in Arcadia Gardens
clamors to have her round. The honor of her presence at their home. The
pleasure of her business at their establishment. The profound distress the
absence of her witness would cause at this or that small ceremony of life.
Sophia strives to make certain they never have cause to regret her.
She pauses in her thoughts. She reaches out her long fingers to touch
her image in the grand mirror. The glass is so cool beneath her skin.
After tea, she plans a stroll round the park, then to Mrs. Lam’s to pick
up a bolt or two of the new turquoise wool in stock, a quick pop round the
shops for supper supplies, then home to prepare it all before sunset, when it
is not permitted to be roaming the streets.
It will be a lovely day. They are all lovely days. That’s how lucky she is.
That’s how beautiful Sophia’s life has always been and always will be. Not
a minute unaccounted for. Not a season unsavored to the last dregs.
She is happy. Her husband is happy. The world is theirs.
I was made for him.