Chapter Thirteen
“I have decided to marry the Duke of Worley.”
This announcement, given in the carriage the duke had sent for Emma and the Betancourts as their small party rode toward Brantmoor, elicited a variety of responses.
Lucy nodded sagely.
Her mother only stared.
The vicar laughed. “That’s a bit ambitious, dear, given we’ve just been invited for dinner.”
Emma felt her cheeks heat.
“The duke has already offered for Emma, Father,” Lucy explained. What the explanation lacked in precise accuracy, it was made up in simplicity and brevity.
“Has he now?” Mrs. Betancourt asked breathily, moving forward in her seat to hear more of this tale. “When did this come about?”
“In London,” Emma told her. Another slight modification of the complicated truth as Emma’s decision had been made in Beadwell, if one were being picky about such things. Realizing he was not only the solution to her present predicament with Mr. Crawford, but would effectively quash all future trouble from that man had been the final weight necessary to tip the scales toward marriage.
“Such momentous news!” Mrs. Betancourt clasped her hands together. “How absolutely wonderful.”
“Yes, wonderful news,” the vicar echoed. “Your aunt and uncle must be beyond themselves with happiness for you.”
The Betancourts were kind and wonderful people who had always cared for Emma and had likely concluded she would never find her way to the altar. Their enthusiasm for her news could not have been greater. Emma saw no reason to explain the extent to which her marriage would be one of convenience. She didn’t even want the duke to fully understand. She had decided after a day or so of deliberation that she would not tell the duke of the threats from Mr. Crawford. As his wife, Emma would be able to draw on his power and influence without actually requiring his assistance. And the very important fact was, although marriage to the duke could allow her to protect the cottage from Mr. Crawford, by marrying, she would, in fact, be losing ownership of the cottage to her husband. She intended to gain the duke’s assurance that she could keep the cottage, but she did not know him well enough to trust him with the knowledge that there was an interested and enthusiastic potential purchaser right in town.
“I should also tell you,” Emma added, “that although I have decided to accept the duke, I have not yet told him. I plan to do so this evening, if an opportunity arises.”
Emma watched as the vicar and his wife exchanged glances. She was fairly certain they understood her indirect plea that she be allowed a moment of privacy with the duke for the purpose of accepting his proposal…or, rather, to confirm that she would not be breaking their already existing engagement.
“Have you heard the story of when the vicar and I dined at Brantmoor?” Mrs. Betancourt asked, adjusting herself on the upholstered seat of the richly appointed carriage.
“I have not,” Emma said, though she saw in the immediately pained expressions of Lucy and her father that she was in the minority.
Mrs. Betancourt leaned forward to place her hand over Emma’s. “The interior of the house is even more beautiful than the exterior. Fit for royalty, I said.” She turned to her husband. “Didn’t I say that, that day… fit for royalty.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” came his cooperative response.
“The food…oh my…I am convinced still today that the white soup was the richest I’ve ever tasted. And the roast venison was better even than Mary Finnemore’s.”
This was high praise indeed, as there was much pride throughout Beadwell for the quality of the food prepared by the innkeeper’s wife.
“Ah, yes.” Her sigh was wistful. “Well, it was just the one time and it was many, many years ago, before our Lucy was born. The vicar had just been granted the living at Beadwell, so we were invited to dinner at the estate with some of the other local gentry and the parson from Brantmoor Village. Mr. Crawford was there with his wife. She’s gone now, of course. So sad.”
“Yes.” There was not much else for Emma to say in response. Everyone understood there was some measure of mystery and scandal surrounding Mrs. Crawford. Gone could mean so many things. Emma and Lucy were too young when the events took place to be privy to details.
“And the duke, naturally,” Mrs. Betancourt continued. “Not this duke, but his father. And the duchess. But she died, poor thing, along with her daughter.”
Emma looked at Lucy, in whom she’d confided the saga of the duke’s sister. Judging by her friend’s expression, they both realized the potential for an embarrassing situation during dinner in which these inaccuracies might be repeated. “Mrs. Betancourt, I am told by the duke that the stories generally believed regarding the deaths of his mother and sister are not true. Rather, his mother lived for several more years in Boston and the sister still lives. She will be returning to England forthwith.”
“What is this?” the vicar said gruffly. “That can’t be true. The old duke observed the mourning and everything. There was a service held.”
Mrs. Betancourt reached out and placed a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “That seems a terribly unlikely story, my dear.”
Emma sighed at the inarguable truth. “Yes. I understand,” Emma conceded, “But as I have had my information directly from the new duke, perhaps it is best this evening if we simply do not refer to it, so as not to introduce an uncomfortable topic of conversation.”
“Well thought, my dear,” the vicar said, nodding. “Well thought.”
Mrs. Betancourt nodded even more vigorously.
Emma wasn’t sure what else to say. If she could not convince her dearest friends of the truth of Charlotte’s background, convincing all of London seemed a daunting task.
“Well, I, for one, am very much looking forward to dinner,” Mrs. Betancourt announced, filling the moment of awkward silence.
“As am I,” added her daughter.
Emma smiled encouragingly at all of them, wishing she felt as encouraged.
Then Lucy gasped and the entire party turned.
The long day of summer allowed an unshrouded view of Brantmoor upon their approach. The mansion’s opulence exceeded even Emma’s expectations, despite her privileged upbringing. Its façade was dominated by a massive, two-story columned portico. This was flanked on either side by large expansions to the main house, both fronted by impressive half-moon towers that rose the full three-story height of the edifice. The ancestral home of the Earls of Ridgely was stately and impressive, but paled in comparison to the intimidating grandeur of the approach to Brantmoor.
“It’s magnificent,” Lucy whispered, breaking the awe-filled silence.
“As breathtaking as I remember,” Mrs. Betancourt added.
The vicar cleared his throat and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Now then, it’s just a house and he’s just a man. There’s no reason to feel out of place. And if he’s to be our Emma’s husband, I’m of a mind to like him.” He punctuated his speech with a firm nod.
The carriage slowed in front of the house and was greeted by liveried men who aided the ladies as they stepped down. When the small party was ushered into the house, Emma’s first thought was that Mrs. Betancourt had been correct in her memory. Everything about the interior of Brantmoor was as grand as its façade. It was not, however, particularly cluttered with decoration, which satisfied Emma’s more simple taste.
Emma surveyed the interior with a detailed eye. When one visits the home of a friend or acquaintance, one collects impressions—a home is large, or cozy, or poorly maintained. When one examines for the first time a house that will become one’s own home, the details to be catalogued become overwhelming. Who was the subject of the marble bust on the hall table? How long must the staff work to oil the endless length of carved banister on the entry hall staircase? The shorter footman who had nearly stumbled after aiding the ladies down from the carriage—was he nervous? Had he been in the family’s employ for long?
Their group was shown into a large drawing room where the duke and Mr. Brydges promptly joined them. As the pleasantries were exchanged, Emma found herself watching John. When finally he stood in front of her and addressed her directly, heat suffused her cheeks. Was he taller and broader than he had been two days before? Surely his hair was sinfully darker and his eyes were more startlingly blue. How strange that this man, this unfamiliar, intimidating lord would be her husband. Emma was mostly quiet as all were seated and conversation circulated around her. Even as she inventoried all that she recognized about him, she was deeply conscious at the same time of all she did not know. She found herself watching him the entire time until they all rose again and were ushered into the grand dining room, with blue damask walls nearly hidden behind massive gilt-framed landscapes and life-sized portraits of notable family members.
When seated with her aunt and uncle, or other familiar company, Emma usually enjoyed the lengthy conversations facilitated by the formal dinner process. Dinner at Brantmoor seemed interminable as Emma became more keenly aware of precisely how difficult it would be to engineer some moments alone with the duke in which to fulfill her purpose.
When the end of the meal arrived, she had no better sense of how she would accomplish such a feat than she did when the meal began.
“Gentlemen,” the duke said to their party once all had finished and had their dishes whisked efficiently away, “might I suggest we forgo our port this evening so we do not leave the ladies to withdraw on their own without a hostess? Perhaps we could all partake of cards and conversation together in the music room this evening.”
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Betancourt nodded.
“So thoughtful of you, Your Grace,” his wife added with a beaming smile for the duke. The vicar’s wife had had nothing but beatific smiles for the duke all through the meal and Emma wondered if she saw him as the dashing hero simply because of who he was, or because he had heroically offered to marry her. She guessed the latter. She was also certain Mrs. Betancourt particularly enjoyed being in on the secret, knowing the answer the duke was to receive before he received it.
As the group was led from the dining room, Emma again wracked her brain for some excuse to separate herself and the duke, but was left with no plan whatsoever.
“What a magnificent harp, Your Grace!” Mrs. Betancourt exclaimed upon their entry into what appeared to be a large second drawing room that was just as grand and beautifully furnished as the parlor into which they had been shown earlier. Indeed, the large harp at the far end of the room did seem particularly splendid, even among the ornate furnishings in the room, including still more massive, gilt-framed portraits covering the walls. The Brantwood family was apparently very large.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Betancourt,” the duke responded with a gracious nod. “Do you play?”
“Sadly, I do not, but my Lucy plays beautifully. She is quite an accomplished musician.”
“Is she?” The duke smiled pleasantly at Lucy. “Can we convince you to play for us, Miss Betancourt?”
“I would be glad to play for everyone, Your Grace. I am complimented by your request.”
Emma stared. She’d been certain Lucy would decline—or at least attempt to do so. Lucy always declined invitations to play for an audience.
Lucy rose from the seat she’d just taken and glanced to the settee behind her. “Oh heavens,” she said.
“What is it, dear?” her mother asked.
“It seems as though I’ve forgotten my shawl in the dining room. I shall have to return for it.”
Emma noticed then that Lucy was, indeed, without her shawl.
“But you’ve just agreed to play for us, dear.” Mrs. Betancourt turned to Emma then with a look of pure, benign innocence. “Perhaps Emma would be so gracious as to retrieve it for you, since she is your very dear friend.” She brought a finger to her lips. “I only worry whether she will find her way. Brantmoor is so large and there are so many rooms.”
Emma nearly laughed. There were precisely two rooms through which the group had passed between the dining room and the parlor in which they were currently situated, but Emma was in no particular mood to argue the point. Lucy and her mother had clearly been more successful than she in devising a ploy. Emma cast a shrewd look at Lucy. She could not recall Lucy dropping her shawl in the dining room. It was quite clever of her to have managed leaving it behind without it being immediately noticed by one of the staff.
“I will of course accompany Lady Emmaline on her task so as to ensure she is not lost forever in the depths of Brantmoor,” the duke declared. His expression was pure sincerity, but his eyes danced with laughter and she knew he guessed the ruse. No matter, really, as long as the task was accomplished.
“Please do not leave the others in suspense, Miss Betancourt,” he said. “You mustn’t wait for us to begin playing. We will return in no time at all.” Then he presented Emma with his arm and a knowing grin. “Shall we, Lady Emmaline?”