‘I’ll do it.’
Sophie had left the room with an emotional lump the size of a golf ball in her throat, in a state of shock but determined not to let down her father and sisters; for once in her life she would act like a Balfour.
A week later and the lump was still there, but as she lifted a hand to knock tentatively on the half-open door it had been joined by a tight knot of anxiety lying like a leaden weight in her stomach.
She still felt in shock.
She knew none of this should have come as a surprise. Since the drama of the scandalous events surrounding the annual Balfour Charity Ball, she had watched as one by one her sisters had been sent away to prove themselves in the world without the cushion of the Balfour wealth and influence.
But time had passed and Sophie had waited nervously for her invitation to her father’s study, and when it hadn’t materialised she had relaxed a little, assuming she was safe—then…it came.
The sympathetic look she received from her father’s butler as she let herself in by a side door to the manor had made her wonder, but the tearful hug from the cook had confirmed it—she had not been overlooked.
Her father had, he said, taken his time to find the perfect position for her. Sophie, who knew that her perfect position was at home at the Balfour gatehouse with her mother, had tried to sound suitably appreciative of his efforts.
Sophie glanced at her watch; she was fifteen minutes early for her first day. Wondering if that made her appear eager or desperate she toyed with the idea of taking a walk and coming back later.
No, it was now or never—don’t be a wimp, Sophie, you can do this! Taking a deep breath she was looking around for the bell when she caught the door with her elbow and it swung inwards.
‘Hello!’
There was no reply.
Taking her courage by the scruff of its neck she stepped through the open door. The room she stepped into was laid out like a country house drawing room, the decor aimed at people who had as much money as taste.
The aroma of coffee was her first impression; the second was the lovely and clever use of texture and colour in the soft furnishing. It was clearly a showroom of sorts, though there were no price tags on either the beautifully displayed individual pieces of modern art or the equally fine antique items.
Sophie was both impressed and daunted, as this was a far cry from her little work room at the Balfour gatehouse with her drawing board, colour charts and wallpaper samples.
She brushed her fingertips along a beautiful vibrant-coloured kilim that had been draped over a leather chesterfield and struggled to see herself working here.
‘Hello?’ she called out again.
She was standing there feeling like a spare part and wondering what to do next when she heard the sound of voices; the noise was coming from the far end of the room, but she couldn’t see anyone. With a puzzled frown drawing her feathery brows into a straight line, she moved towards the sound of the voices when she realised that what she had assumed was a wall was actually a portable screen.
The voices were the other side and as she aproached they got louder.
She peered through a gap in the screen and saw another area laid out beyond, lit by a pair of stunning chandeliers. This time the style was strongly Gustavian; pale and deceptively simple, the light airy feel was further enhanced by a stunning antique mirror in an ornate carved white-painted frame that took centre stage.
The building was clearly a great deal larger than it looked from the outside.
She opened her mouth to speak, caught the word Balfour, and closed it again, revealing herself now might cause embarrassment to the people on the other side of the screen. Two women, by the sound of their voices, though all Sophie could see were the tops of their heads above the high back of a wooden bench.
She was about to move to the opposite side of the room when she heard the person who hadn’t yet spoken exclaim, ‘One of the Balfour girls—you’ve got to be kidding! Work here! Do they work? And risk breaking a nail, surely not.’
‘Miaow…if you were a society heiress to a fortune, would you work, darling?’
‘Let me see…’
Sophie heard both girls laugh.
‘But you’d have to share the fortune with…how many sisters are there?’
‘Are we including the one they’ve just discovered?’
Normally a pretty placid person Sophie felt her face flush with anger at this mocking reference—anger she felt on behalf of her half-sister Mia, who was the result of an affair their father had many years ago.
Oscar had welcomed the daughter he hadn’t known about into the family and despite the fact she hadn’t known her for long Sophie felt a special closeness to her beautiful half-Italian sister.
‘And then Zoe Balfour isn’t really a Balfour at all…maybe she’s the one that’s coming here?’ one of the voices speculated.
There was a certain malicious amusement in the voice that responded. ‘Yeah, maybe Daddy’s cut her off now he knows she’s not his. I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall at the 100th Balfour Charity Ball!’
Sophie’s hands clenched into fists at her side as she bit her tongue, longing to set the record straight, but she was hampered by the fact that she couldn’t, without revealing that she’d been eavesdropping.
Sure Zoe had been outed as illegitimate at the Balfour Ball and the ensuing scandal had caused their father’s serious overhaul of his parental style but as far as he and all of them were concerned Zoe was a Balfour no matter what her genetic parentage was.
‘So how many are there?’
‘Six, seven, who knows…but what wouldn’t I give to have their looks and money!’ came the wistful response.
Eight, thought Sophie, silently amending their total, and she seconded their wish, at least for the looks part anyway. The money part had never been a problem for her in that she didn’t have expensive tastes, but what the Balfour name gave her was the luxury of following her instincts.
And Sophie’s instincts drew her like a homing pigeon back to Balfour, where her mother lived in the gatehouse since the tragic death of her second husband. Sophie’s eyes misted as her thoughts touched on the man who had been a second father to his wife’s three daughters.
For a short time Sri Lanka had been home for Sophie but now the Balfour estate in Buckinghamshire was the one place she really felt she belonged, it was the place where there was no pressure to be something she wasn’t.
Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t an instantly recognisable face except to the people who worked on the Balfour estate and the locals in the village.
‘I have never provided you girls with challenges,’ Oscar Balfour had lamented. ‘Children need to be pushed, but it is never too late. I have been a negligent father, but I mean to make amends. Independence, Sophie,’ he’d said, indicating the rule that she would find most valuable, though he
