Chapter Thirty-One
Emma knocked and entered Lucy’s room to find her, not reading as she’d predicted, but standing at the window, staring out. “You seem troubled, Lucy, and I must apologize for that,” Emma said, walking to where her friend stood. “I was only thinking of my own comfort when I brought you into our uneasy situation here. I am very sorry.”
Lucy turned from the window and took Emma’s hand in hers. “How can you owe an apology for calling upon your dearest friend when you are in need, and how could I demand one, when I am glad to be the person you would call upon?”
Emma’s lips turned up at the corners. She should have expected Lucy would find a way to make an apology seem not only superfluous but an offense if given.
“I am not troubled,” Lucy continued, “but I have been thinking of the challenges facing your family. They are more than they should be, it seems, for just the few of you.”
“Indeed.” They were a family of but three.
Lucy sat on the high poster bed and patted the place next to her. “Why don’t you sit? We can talk about these troubles, and even if we aren’t able to solve them, perhaps we can make them feel a bit smaller for a time.”
Emma welled up with gratitude at the simple comfort her friend offered. “That is why I so love you, Lucy. I had come to suggest a walk, but this is better. You always seem to know just what I need to hear. How do you manage to know every time?”
It was true. How many times as young girls had they draped themselves across either Emma or Lucy’s bed while Lucy dispensed wisdom that belied her years to apply to the dilemma of the day.
“Why don’t you begin,” Lucy suggested.
“No, you. Go ahead, please.”
Neither woman spoke.
Then both laughed.
Lucy pulled her legs up onto the bed. “When did we become so polite?”
Emma sat beside her. “We can’t help it, I suppose.” She faced her friend with a comically severe expression. “I am a duchess, you know.”
“Good heavens, you are. You know I feel very guilty that I’m not intimidated by you. I’ve tried very hard to be.”
Emma patted her friend’s hand. “I’m sure you have and I am grateful for your efforts.” She sighed. “Since you insist, I suppose I will begin. I wanted to talk to you about Charlotte and the scene we all caused in the drawing room yesterday and…well, just everything. You must believe they are all mad and I’ve gone mad right along with them.”
Lucy’s laugh was bright and natural. “Of course you haven’t gone mad, any of you. You’ve all just been thrust into an impossible situation. Charlotte is young. Her mother has only been gone a short while and everything is different here. She will settle in, I’m sure of it.” Lucy set her hand gently on Emma’s arm. “And so will you. I know you never wanted to be a duchess, but you are. You will be a grand one, I know it.”
Emma’s look was dubious. “How would you know that?”
“Because you will snub all of society thus leaving them all vying for your favor. Nothing is so desirable as that which is withheld, wouldn’t you agree?”
Emma laughed. “Lucy, my dear, you are very wise. I believe you would make an excellent duchess.”
“Don’t be silly. You are the perfect duchess.”
Laugh as she might, Emma knew she was not the perfect duchess. She had so far made negligible progress in preparing Charlotte and had failed entirely in all ways but one of becoming a wife to her husband.
She was determined, however, not to fail in her friendship to Lucy. “We should speak of Mr. Brydges.”
“What of Mr. Brydges?” Lucy asked. “He seems an incorrigible sort, but he and the duke are clearly very thick. They’ve been friends a long time, I presume?”
“Yes. I believe so,” Emma answered, “but I am more concerned with the man’s attention to you. Have you noticed, when he is critical of Charlotte, it is most commonly now as a comparison to you? He is always very complimentary and attentive to you, I have noticed. I simply thought to caution you, in case you might be developing a preference for him. I’m not certain I trust Mr. Brydges, entirely.”
Lucy’s laugh was light and unconcerned. “Emma, dear, Mr. Brydges is handsome, clever, and comfortably situated. He has, through his great skill and effort, built a successful horse farm. He also appears to be a rather loyal friend to your husband. Have you failed to notice the inaccuracy of your early opinion of him?”
“So you do prefer him?”
Lucy’s smile in response held a secret. It sent warning bells pealing through Emma’s brain.
“I would be fortunate to have the affection of Mr. Brydges, but I would not waste my time hoping for it. His interest is directed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“Must I take your hand and lead you to it? Mr. Brydges is completely taken with Charlotte.”
“Charlotte? You can’t be serious!”
“My dear, I am gravely serious.”
“But he criticizes her mercilessly.”
“One must be watching very closely to notice the detailed imperfections Mr. Brydges seems to notice in Charlotte, wouldn’t you agree?” Lucy asked.
Impossible. They detested each other. Emma couldn’t countenance what it would mean if they did not. Or at least if he did not. “Even if he did have some interest in Charlotte, it could not be serious,” she observed. “Mr. Brydges does not seem the sort to have serious intentions toward anyone.”
“Are you so certain? Mr. Brydges has no pressure to marry. He has no title to perpetuate or need for financial rescue. But that does not mean he will not marry for love, when he is struck by it.”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I cannot believe it. I am sorry for doubting you when you are usually so wise, but there it is. I cannot believe Mr. Brydges is lovesick for Charlotte.”
Lucy’s eyes danced with laughter. “Wait and see, and we will know if I am correct.”
“I suppose,” Emma conceded.
Lucy shifted her legs underneath her and the laughter in her expression fell away. “And last to speak of is the duke.”
There was too much knowing behind Lucy’s concerned gaze. Emma’s cheeks flamed. “There are no troubles with the duke,” she demurred. “I asked him just this afternoon to pay more attention to Charlotte and he has promised he will.”
“What of you?” Lucy asked. “When will he begin paying more attention to you?”
“I…well…I have not asked him to pay more attention to me. There is no need.”
“You are not happy.”
“I worry. I have much to do. Once things have calmed down with Charlotte, I will be content.”
“Only content?”
Emma sighed. There really was no way to hide her feelings from Lucy. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hide them.
“My marriage was built upon a bargain, not a romantic dream.”
“Does it have to follow, then, that you cannot be happy in your marriage? Are there no marriages of convenience that become more than just convenient?”
“I cannot claim that I am not happy in my marriage. My husband is kind and honorable. I respect his desire to restore his sister to her rightful place. My resistance to marrying him was, in hindsight, obstinate and foolish,” she admitted. “He is a good man.”
“I believe the primary reason for your objection was the fact the matter had been decided for you,” Lucy offered wisely. “But wisdom prevailed, didn’t it?”
“Marriage to the duke was, as you say, a wise choice. I am fortuitously near to Beadwell, my husband is exceedingly kind, and I cannot in good conscience complain of the fact that nearly all of my conceivable desires are addressed with immediacy by a perfectly trained staff of a number I could not begin to count.”
“But not all of your desires,” Lucy suggested softly, her eyes searching.
Emma tried to ensure her responding smile was in no way self-pitying. Perhaps she even succeeded.
Lucy took Emma’s hand in hers. “I knew there was more.”
Perhaps she did not succeed after all.
She exhaled and met her friend’s gaze directly. “The unfortunate truth, Lucy, is that I have made the grave mistake of falling in love with my husband.”
Lucy released an incredulous laugh. “Was that so difficult to admit? I suspected as much,” she insisted. “But why must that be a grave mistake? You have said yourself, he is kind and honorable.”
“And honest. His reasons for marrying were made very clear. He has been a responsible and kind husband and duke. He is…attentive,” she said, struggling for the word, “to his husbandly duties.” The heat rose in Emma’s cheeks. “But he has many responsibilities. We do not spend much time in each other’s company. We are not a love match, nor will we become one.”
“Are you so certain?” Lucy asked.
“I am a grown woman. I may not possess as much wisdom and practicality as you do, dear, but I have enough good sense not to be mooning around composing sonnets about unrequited love.”
“What good would a sonnet do?” Lucy asked sharply. “If you want to see what can be made of your marriage, you don’t hide in your room writing poetry. You seek out your husband and spend time in his company.”
Emma laughed this time. “I cannot very well chase the duke around the estate all day, as though he is the fox in a hunt. He may, in fact, find that unsettling.”
Lucy’s expression remained one of concern. “I am in earnest, Emma. Affection cannot grow between you while you are apart. If he has not yet become thoroughly enchanted by the woman he has taken to wife, I am convinced it is due to a lack of time in your presence, not any lack in the woman herself.”
“So speaks my most fiercely loyal friend.”
“Dismiss if you will, but I am unwavering in this belief. What harm can it cause to test my hypothesis?”
“Perhaps.” Emma’s response was intentionally noncommittal. She was tempted to follow Lucy’s advice. But why was she tempted? Did it appeal to her for its practicality, or because, out of weakness, she was grasping at a seemingly rational excuse to chase down her husband and claim some of his time and attention for herself?
Lucy knew her too well. “Do not deny I am correct, Emma. The consequences of not testing my theory may be greater. In the end, inaction constitutes acceptance.”
Emma considered this. Was she ready to accept? She had accepted these circumstances when she agreed to marry John, but her feelings and wishes had changed. She was not ready. She did want more. “Very well, Lucy,” she said with a decisive nod. “I shall test your theory. I shall endeavor to seek out my husband’s company and see what may come of it.”
* * *
Dressed for dinner, Emma walked into the drawing room, pleased to discover only her husband. He stood on the far side of the room, gazing out the window at the estate cast in the last light of evening. She wondered if he saw it at all. His gaze appeared unfocused, as though he was more attentive to his thoughts than the picture before him.
He was dressed for dinner as well, his tall, broad-shouldered frame trimmed in perfectly tailored clothes. He looked entirely ducal from head to toe—from the rich cloth of his jacket to the perfectly clipped dark locks at the nape of his neck to his unyielding posture. She liked how he looked just then—dignified, authoritative, regal almost.
Her teeth tugged at her lower lip as she recalled she also very much liked the way he looked with mussed hair and a wolfish grin. She was, sadly, thoroughly enamored with her husband. Emma had come to terms with her sister-in-law this week. She was not ready to come to terms with her husband—not these terms anyway. She was going to follow Lucy’s advice, and though she had no skill, or even an inkling of how to begin, she was going to seek to capture her husband’s attention.
She released a quiet sigh.
The slight sound prompted him to turn.
“Emma.” The smile she received allowed her to believe he was genuinely happy to see her. He crossed the room in a few long strides and took her hands. “You are a vision this evening. I do not recognize this dress.”
“It’s new,” she confirmed, girlishly pleased that he should notice. She had ordered several new dresses along with those for Charlotte. This dress was her favorite among them. Her conversation with Lucy had inspired her to take extra care with her appearance that evening.
“A lovely color,” he added. “Brighter than I’ve seen you wear, but you are beautiful in it.”
The dress had been a bold choice for her. She possessed rust-colored dresses that were nearer to brown and felt they were a fair complement to her coloring. This dress, however, could not bear a name so drab as rust. It was the red-orange of flame, with not a hint of brown to mute the tone.
“I’m pleased you like it,” she told her husband. “I was just thinking as I saw you what a dashing picture you make yourself this evening.”
He grinned. “Pity that we are such a handsome couple but have only Brydges, Charlotte, and Miss Betancourt to see us. I fear they have known us too long and too well to be impressed with our finery.”
Emma barely recognized the sparkling laughter as her own. If only this could always be the way between them. She smiled up at her husband with open affection, being for once completely unguarded.
Her efforts were rewarded as he gazed back at her with equal warmth. His hand still held hers and he squeezed it, tugging her gently toward him. The heat in his blue eyes intensified and held hers.
She stood, arrested by her own desire for him, until he lowered his mouth to slowly brush his lips against hers. The kiss was not long, his touch barely a whisper, yet she shivered.
At the sound of voices in the hall, he stepped back a respectable distance, but continued to hold her gaze with a look that promised of a moment delayed rather than a moment ended.
“Good evening, Lucy, Mr. Brydges.” She turned and greeted their guests with a bit more exuberance than intended.
“Good evening to you,” Lucy responded with an amused grin and an elevated brow. “You are looking especially lovely.”
“Why thank you. As are you.”
“That color is striking,” Mr. Brydges observed, in a rare compliment to Emma.
“Thank you.” She nodded graciously. She was not of a mood in that moment to be annoyed with any of their party.
She was not even annoyed with Charlotte, who arrived considerably later than the rest of them, leaving the group to wait before dinner.
Once they were seated for the evening meal, the conversation began easily enough. John remarked upon the cooling weather and Mr. Brydges insisted he preferred the brisk temperatures for riding. Emma concurred with his sentiment.
They were well into the meal before John turned to his sister and commented, “I understand you’ve been granted a furlough from lessons, Charlotte. I hope you’ll find something to occupy your time.”
Charlotte’s smile was cryptic. “I am looking forward to some rest and time to myself.”
John set his utensils aside and regarded her more intently. “For my part, I apologize if we have asked too much of you too quickly. I want you to be comfortable here. This is your home, Charlotte.”
Charlotte seemed taken aback by her brother’s forthright manner, but Emma was glad for it. It was well past time for John to pay his sister some well-needed attention.
“I…I know this is my home now.” Charlotte glanced around the table. “I am becoming accustomed to things here.”
Whether or not Charlotte was becoming accustomed to life at Brantmoor, she certainly seemed more subdued, to Emma’s great relief.
“Are these tavern biscuits?” John asked. He broke one open and tasted it. “They are. Charlotte, did you give Cook your recipe for my favorite biscuits?”
Charlotte’s face reddened and she glanced around the room before answering. “I, um, yes. I told Cook they were your favorite.”
John turned to Emma. “Charlotte used to make these for me in Boston.”
Emma smiled, keenly aware that Charlotte must be anxious to know their reactions. It was exactly the kind of thing for which Charlotte would be judged by others, but Emma saw nothing shameful. “I did not realize you were so skilled in the kitchen, Charlotte. You must have been a great help to your mother.”
“They are delicious.” Lucy announced it to the table at large.
“I do believe she makes them nearly as well as you do, Charlotte,” John declared.
Charlotte smiled and glanced at…
Mr. Brydges?
Emma watched in surprise as the two shared an unspoken exchange before Mr. Brydges broke the contact and reached for another biscuit.
“My first was a bit dry, actually. I think I’ll have to try another.”
“They aren’t at all dry,” Charlotte insisted. “I believe Cook has outdone herself.”
Had Lucy witnessed this? Emma turned to her friend.
Judging by Lucy’s triumphant expression, she had indeed.
Could Lucy be correct? It still seemed so unlikely. Conversation at the table moved from an evaluation of the biscuits to discussion of the other food, and the general consensus was reached that Brantmoor’s cook was without equal. Emma, however, was still pondering the possibility that Mr. Brydges may have developed an interest in Charlotte.
It was her concern, after all, given that Charlotte’s debut season and chaperonage were really in her hands.