Chapter Four
Seated at her desk in the tiny schoolroom of Figheldene Hall, Emma began to write.
May 12th, Figheldene Hall
Dear George,
I have so much to tell you, you can’t imagine!
She paused, pen suspended, and looked over at her young pupils, busily engaged in practicing their handwriting. Finally, she had found a task to occupy them which didn’t involve endless interruptions and questions, and gave her a moment in which she could write to her brother.
Mary, nine, and William, seven, are quite delightful once you get to know them. They have a much older sister and brother, Miss Philippa and Mr. Charles.
Emma paused again and glanced toward the window that looked onto the garden. It was a fine spring day, and she longed desperately to be outside with the sun on her face, but her duties tied her to this room. She felt like a caged bird aching to fly.
She could hear the light tones of Mr. Charles Keane as he conversed with a visitor below and envied the young man his freedom. He was a handsome fellow with an angelic look, but she knew from experience that he—just like Elias Hartley—could not be trusted. He’d already taken a liberty or two with her. However, much as she longed for someone to talk to about Charles, her brother was not that person.
Thank heaven for the children and young people of Figheldene! The house is positively ancient and built in stone, with minuscule windows that make one feel imprisoned. Frivolity is not encouraged—although Philippa and Charles disobey this rule continually—and my termagant of a mistress, Mrs. Keane, has forbidden me to make friends with any of her offspring.
She stopped writing again and cast her mind back to her first meeting with Mr. Charles. When she first arrived three weeks ago, he and Willie—as young William was called—had helped her with her baggage and shown her up to her room.
Charles, a man of similar age to herself, half a head taller, and with twinkling blue eyes, had treated her to a broad grin and informed her, “This is your sanctuary, Miss Hibbert. Mama will surely furnish you a key so you can keep the young marauders out—though I wouldn’t put it past Willie to climb up to your room via the old trellis. Oh no, don’t look alarmed! It probably won’t hold his weight, anyway. But if the young miscreant does anything requiring a good whipping, I’m your man.”
He’d laughed at her shocked expression, then tugged at a damp strand of her hair before tucking it behind her ear. The peculiarly intimate gesture had taxed Emma’s mind for some time. Maybe, when Mrs. Keane had advised her not to make friends with the Keane progeny, she’d been thinking specifically of Charles.
Another Adonis, a golden demigod just like the Earl of Overcrich. Well, she wasn’t going to be fooled again.
Mrs. Keane is ghastly and behaves more like my jailer than my employer. She gave me strict instructions that I must follow to the letter, or expect to be disciplined, or even turned out without a reference. I am not to fraternize with the servants, nor command them to run errands for me. I must eat with the children in the old nursery unless specifically invited to attend a family meal, such as at Christmas. Lessons begin at eight o’clock sharp with luncheon at noon and high tea at four o’clock. I am given supper at eight o’clock in my room, after which, once the children are in bed, I may spend an hour or two in whichever room the family is not using to do my mending or pursue my studies. I mustn’t expect a fire to be lit in these rooms—the fires are extinguished once the family has vacated the room. I am permitted the use of a single oil lamp and must apply to Mrs. Keane when I need to have it refilled, but should be aware of the current cost of oil and not waste my time sitting up late in bed reading or writing. As if I didn’t know the cost of oil, after all the economies we’ve had to put in place at Tresham Hall!
Willie coughed, and Emma glanced up, but he just rubbed at his nose, then bent again to his handwriting. A fly landed on Emma’s page, but she daren’t swipe it away for fear of smudging the ink. A hearty puff of air sent it buzzing out of the room.
Mr. Charles’s voice was louder now. He must be right beneath the schoolroom window with his friend—a male friend from the sound of it. Their discussion was animated, and Charles seemed to be trying to reassure his companion, who was evidently distressed and angry. The temptation to eavesdrop on their conversation was strong.
I am to receive my wages once a quarter…
“If she’s that fickle, she’s not for you.” Charles’s voice broke in upon her, ruining her concentration.
With a sigh, she abandoned her letter and walked quietly to the window where she pretended to be removing a cobweb from the frame.
Neither of her young charges looked up.
“She’s young, and perhaps not ready to settle down yet,” Charles continued.
“She quite clearly is ready to settle down,” countered his friend, “as she’s now engaged to that wretched Cornwallis. They announced it almost as soon as I arrived—how can any fellow work that fast?”
How, indeed? Emma thought, biting down on her lip. This woman, whoever she was, sounded exactly like a female version of Elias Hartley. In nature, certainly. Was the lady under discussion handsome, too?
“Engagements can be broken,” Charles said. “But don’t waste any more time on her if she’s not interested. I imagine this must be the first time you’ve been jilted. Poor James!”
“I was so certain of her heart.”
Charles snorted derisively. “What does love have to do with anything? Your sort marries for pedigree, don’t they?”
His sort? Charles’s friend must be a blue-blood then. She grimaced. Of course they married for pedigree and whatever other selfish reason one could think of. The new Countess of Overcrich had turned out to be a wealthy heiress with an ancestral line—and an arrogance—stretching right back to the ark. Emma doubted very much Elias had married for love, or if he was even capable of such an emotion.
She’d settle for poor and plain, if she were ever to marry. So long as the fellow loved her above all things and had a kind and generous heart.
The man called James said evenly, “Don’t tease me, Charles. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got this damned charity ball to sort out. I was planning to announce our engagement at the ball, but now I haven’t the heart for any of it.”
“What? Abandon your distressed soldiers? You’d hate yourself if you let them down! And maybe you can use the event to demonstrate you are back on the marriage mart.”
“And be a laughing stock? Everyone will know by then that Belinda chose Cornwallis over me. I should postpone.”
Emma felt for the unknown man. It must have been horrid, being thrown over like that. She leaned out of the window, to see if she could catch sight of the speaker. His voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Bother. There was a thick rhododendron in the way. But perhaps they would start walking again soon and reveal themselves. She’d wait and see.
“Don’t postpone,” Charles urged his friend. “There’s absolutely no need to feel humiliated. The fact that the girl has elected to marry a nabob from a family of merchants, in preference to one of the oldest titles in the country, won’t reflect well on her. Just hold your head high and summon up that aristocratic arrogance you lot are so good at. It’ll be fine.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Well, I’d best be off to try to settle things with Mama. She wants the ball to go ahead, too, and is as eager as ever for me to marry. Apparently, I’ve been unfit for company since Waterloo and need a wife and family to cheer me up and stop my obsession with my veterans.”
Emma’s heart sped from a canter to a gallop. Surely, she had heard this man’s voice before, but where? Clinging tight to the stonework of the windowsill, she leaned out as far as she dared.
“She’s right,” said Charles. “You’ve been an absolute misery these last few years. You think of nothing but your boxing and your home for old soldiers. What about real life? What about light-skirts, handsome servant girls, gambling, and fun?”
The men were moving away from the shrubbery. She could see Charles’s companion now—a tall man, with wavy, light brown hair beneath his beaver hat. But it wasn’t until he tipped his head back, saying with a laugh, “I think I’ll leave all that to you, old friend,” that she recognized him.
Her heart skidded to a halt.
Lord have mercy!
It was the ungrateful, rude, and disturbingly handsome gentleman who’d been thrown from his horse.