Miss Sophie's Secret by Fran Baker

so close as to prevent it. They were not brother and sister.
    Or were they? Was that possible? The thought had never occurred to her before. Now she began to give it careful consideration. If it were true, she wondered who their mother could have been.
    At that moment Anna Finch came into the room. She was warmly dressed in heavy boots, an overcoat, and a bonnet that tied snugly over her ears. She carried Sophie’s warmest coat over her arm and wasted no time slipping her into it and buttoning it securely.
    Continuing to muse, Sophie finally decided it wasn’t possible that Jonathan and she were brother and sister. He was born in India, and his mother had died there when he was but a babe. She was born in England a full eight years later, and everything about her mother, including her name, remained a mys—
    “Miss Sophie,” Anna scolded. “Could ye stand still a bit an’ let me tie yer bonnet proper?”
    “Sorry,” Sophie said.
    Johnnie Aysgarth arrived as Anna was tucking her mistress’s hands into her muff, and the three young people went out the front door together and down the steps. At the roadway Anna was obliged to catch Sophie firmly by the arm, draw her back against the fence, and hold her while a curricle swept past them. Then she hurried her across the thoroughfare and into the safety of the park. They began to stroll briskly along one of the paths.
    “Anna,” Sophie began, “does your mother remember my mother?”
    The girl shook her head. “I’ve no notion, miss. She never said.”
    “When you write to her next, will you please ask her?”
    Anna giggled. “I’ll not be doin’ that, Miss Sophie. I can nae write.”
    Before Sophie could do more than frown at that, an exquisite young man, thoroughly muffled in scarf, fur-trimmed greatcoat, and beaver, sprang out at them from behind some shrubbery.
    “Miss Althorpe!” he caroled. “What a pleasure to meet you here!”
    “Mr. Ferguson,” she said, smiling. “Good morning.” She hesitated. “Or should I say, good afternoon?”
    “I would say excellent afternoon,” he replied, beaming, “as any time I have the pleasure of spending in your company must be rated the very highest.”
    She bobbed her head to him. “I thank you, sir, for your kind words.”
    “No, no,” he protested. “I thank you for granting me your company.”
    He held out his arm to her, and after a slight hesitation she removed a hand from her muff and accepted his offering, tucking the muff quickly back over her hand as a chill wind circled around it. She glanced at him surreptitiously. Surely he was the handsomest creature in the entire world, with his flickering dimples that came and went in a mocking way, but there was a look about his eyes—a sort of bland vacuity that surrounded the shining irises—that Sophie found discouraging. It implied a sort of emptiness, she thought, that hinted at reasoning powers which were less than acute.
    “Miss Althorpe,” he began, smiling warmly at her, “are you interested in whist?”
    “In what?”
    “Whist. The card game.”
    She shook her head. “No, sir, I am not. I tried to learn when I was younger, but it failed to captivate me. I have spent most of my time playing chess with Lord Reginald, when games were required.”
    “You must try whist again,” he urged her. “It is certainly the most delightful game. It is all tricks, you see.”
    “Tricks, sir?” She raised her eyebrows. “Is that quite honest?”
    He laughed good-naturedly. “So droll, Miss Althorpe. I mean taking tricks , of course. Matching cards, and so on. Most challenging, putting one’s wits against the most brilliant minds in the ton.”
    Sophie decided that it was time to turn the conversation to a topic that interested her. “Do you hunt, sir?”
    “Hunt!” he exclaimed. “Good heavens!” It was apparent that he was about to deny it hotly, but he hesitated, peering into her face. “Do you hunt Miss Althorpe?”
    “Oh, yes!” she said.