Chapter Eighteen
Emma sat on the windowsill of the chamber she’d called her own for the past twenty-two years and gazed out. The fact that she was home, at last, brought joy mixed with agony.
How could she ever say farewell to this place? She loved it almost as much as she loved her family, and the idea of someone else sitting in this spot, relishing this view of lush green countryside, was anathema.
For a while, she lost herself just admiring the overgrown gardens below and watching exhausted blackbirds whipping in and out of nearby hedgerows, either feeding current families or preparing for new ones. Soon she’d have to put on her oldest clothes, tie back her hair, and set to work on those very hedges, removing the choking bindweed, hacking back the brambles, and ensuring the immediate environs of Tresham Hall looked attractive to would-be buyers.
Would Charles write to her, as he’d promised? It was an unexpected offer, made when she expressed regrets that she wouldn’t know how Willie was faring at Brighton. At her protest that it would be thoroughly improper, Charles had called her a stick-in-the-mud, winked, then pinched her cheek. Fortunately, she’d remembered just in time to give him the Four Swans as her direction, rather than Tresham. Carrier Marshman would bring her any letters received at the inn when he next came by.
Sheer delight had filled her heart when her hired chaise had deposited her at the inn, and she caught sight of Marshman’s cheerful country countenance as he waited to pick up passengers. Unfortunately, whenever she thought of Marshman, she couldn’t help but recall the moment she’d first laid eyes on Viscount Tidworth.
A peculiar feeling of loss assaulted her. She fought against it, smiling wanly at her own folly. Tidworth had paid her back in full for insulting her and owed her nothing further.
Certainly not an explanation of what he had been doing with Philippa Keane in his bedroom, well after everyone else was asleep.
Slipping off the windowsill, she ventured downstairs, collecting her basket and shears en route. Briefly, she looked in on Papa where he sat at his desk and was pleased to see the color was gradually returning to his cheeks after his illness. George’s treatment regime had been most effective, thank heaven.
The sun glinted off the diamond-paned windows like myriad stars as she stepped into the courtyard, then made her way down the lane to where she’d left off weeding the day before. It was a beautiful afternoon, and late June flowers brightened the hedgerows—honeysuckle with its sweetly heavy scent, pink and purple foxgloves, and the impressively tall spikes of giant mullein.
Setting her basket down on the verge, she set to work dragging out the bindweed. It was a satisfying but mindless task, and her thoughts drifted back to the conversation she’d had with George when he’d paid them a short visit.
She’d told her brother about Charles Keane’s amorous behavior and received a stark warning to keep the man at arm’s length. George—with unsettling vehemence—offered to deal with the fellow personally if he upset or embarrassed her again.
“Please don’t call him out!” she’d begged. “It’s nothing as serious as all that!”
Then he’d remarked on the fact that most of her journey had been by hired chaise, and she’d had to confess that Tidworth had paid for it and had also convinced the Keanes she should travel home rather than go to Brighton with them.
Her sibling had given her an old-fashioned look. He said, “A gentleman, eh? You’ve made some poor, unsuspecting fellow fall for you already?”
Emma tugged viciously at a long strand of bindweed, recalling how she’d blushed at George’s taunt. The idea of Tidworth falling for her was ludicrous.
They were barely friends.
She hadn’t told George the entire story of what lay between herself and the viscount, as he’d only have teased her about it.
As it was, he’d laughed, then said, “Not one but two! Really, sister mine, your come-out was wasted. If only we’d known all we needed to do was dress you up as a governess and send you out into the world, to get the gentlemen trailing after you.”
She’d changed the subject after that.
Her brother was just too astute and could read her like a book. If she’d ever felt any warmth toward Tidworth, his secret liaison with Philippa Keane had crushed that feeling. Emma had fully expected an announcement after what she’d overheard, but none had been forthcoming. What kind of gentleman would so dishonor a lady?
And the letter she’d recently received from Charles had not only crushed any feeling she might have had for the viscount, but ground it underfoot.
She pushed the uncomfortable memories away and concentrated on her task, working steadily until that time of the afternoon when even the birds fell silent, and the countryside slumbered. The only person she saw during the following half hour was Henry Wilkins, a shepherd attached to the Home Farm. As he drove his small flock of Ryeland sheep before him, he smoothed down his beautifully embroidered smock and touched a forelock to her. Wellington, Henry’s sheepdog, panted up and drooled at her, hoping for a fuss, which she happily supplied. Aside from that, and a kestrel swooping upon a vole, she was the only active creature in the whole of the landscape.
As the afternoon became more humid, her labors slowed. Farther down the lane, a patch of willows edged a large pond fed by a spring, offering blissful shade. She decided to allow herself a moment’s respite, and reread her letter from Charles.
There was no one about, so she slipped off her shoes and stockings and sat down on the edge of the bank to dangle her feet in the shallows. The water was deliciously chill. After a moment she removed her bonnet, pulled the pins from her hair and shook it about her shoulders, then splashed her face with water. Leaning back on her elbows, she allowed the cooler air beneath the willows to infuse her body, and unfolded the letter.
My dearest Emma,
I assume I may call you that, due to the special nature of our relationship? I so miss having you around—there is no one here to tease or be gay with except Philippa, although we hope soon to attend an assembly where no doubt there will be better sport. I’m not to remain in Brighton long, however, but must return to Bath where Aunt Letitia is currently situated receiving a treatment for eruptions on the skin—how very distasteful! I’m expected to attend upon her, although no doubt I may make my escape and sample some of the delights of the town, while at the same time reveling in the fact that I’m so much closer to your mysterious dwelling place. Maybe on my return to Figheldene from Bath, I shall collect you and bring you back there where we may both be comfortable together.
Comfortable? Alarm shot through her at the very idea. That would never happen. She huffed and continued reading.
But you’re a woman, so you’ll be crying out for the gossip! I won’t bore you with the deeds of the ton, none of whom you’re likely to know, except for our mutual acquaintance, Tidworth. He’s up and down the country a good deal at present, sometimes in the company of a new arrival in his parents’ household, none other than his freckled cousin Jemima Pitt. She’s just a year younger than Philippa but as simpering a miss as you could ever meet. There are chasms of difference between her and Pip. Miss Pitt is very much a girl just out of the schoolroom, whereas my sister is already a sophisticated woman of the world. You’ll be interested to hear there’s some speculation that Tidworth is to marry Miss Pitt. Good luck to him, say I. He evidently cares not that he might sire children with rusty hair and freckles.
My pen’s becoming blunt now, dear girl, with all this writing, and I’m too lazy to sharpen it, so I’ll close now, and exhort you to write back as soon as you can, at the address below.
Your fond friend,
Charles Keane
I almost forgot to say, the sea air does indeed seem to agree with Willie, and the family is to remain here in Brighton for the foreseeable future.
Emma folded the paper angrily and stuffed it in her apron pocket. The cad! If Tidworth was to marry his cousin, he’d treated Philippa Keane abysmally. Just when she’d decided he was not a monster, but a man of morals and charitable intent, it appeared he’d thrown over one woman for another in a matter of weeks.
She let out a snort. And he’d had the effrontery to rail at her when she’d inadvertently stopped him proposing to Miss Carthorse, or whatever her name was!
Were all men such hypocrites? Or did they improve with age?
She closed her eyes and let the play of sunlight between the bobbing willow leaves bathe her eyelids. In a minute, no more, she’d put her hair up again and head back to work.
How long she’d drifted in and out of her doze, she couldn’t say, but she was shocked into sudden wakefulness by the sound of a horse cantering up the lane. She sprang to her feet, her first thought to hide behind the slender trunks of the willow trees. But as the horse came to a halt level with the pond, she knew she’d already been seen.
Shading her eyes against the sun, she waited as the rider dismounted. He started to doff his hat, then froze mid-movement, gaping at her as if he’d just seen a ghost.
She blinked and looked at the man more closely. Then she, too, froze in consternation.
Good heavens. It was Viscount Tidworth.