Chapter Twenty
Emma had spent a considerable part of the night struggling to work out her feelings regarding Viscount Tidworth. Luckily, he hadn’t accepted their offer of George’s room for the night, so she didn’t need to worry about his physical proximity.
Which was just as well, as she found being near him extremely distracting.
“The viscount seems much taken with the property,” said Papa as the family sat at breakfast the next morning.
“Do you think so?” queried Emma’s mama. “I found him hard to read. A bit stiff and aloof. What is your opinion of him, Emma?”
Emma flushed and poked at her breakfast roll. “Perhaps he’s not always like that,” she muttered. For what man would not be wary—and seemingly aloof—after the kind of inquisition to which she’d subjected him? It was none of her business which young woman—if any—he wanted to pay court to. Heaven forbid she gave the impression she cared.
“Very high in the instep,” continued Mama. “But also diplomatic, considering this sale has been forced upon us.”
Papa stopped sawing at his bacon and said, “My dear, what do you expect from the future Earl of Rossbury?” He looked over at Emma and went on, “How remarkable that you already knew him. Maybe that will work in our favor. Do you think, now he knows you are a d’Ibert rather than a Hibbert, he’ll reveal your status to your employers? That could be embarrassing.”
Not just embarrassing, thought Emma, fanning her cheeks with a napkin. It could cost her her job. Not to mention bringing all their creditors clamoring around, demanding settlement of their bills.
But if Tresham were sold, they’d be able to pay those bills.
Buttering another roll, Mama said, “Emma, I think you should show the viscount around the gardens today.”
“Oh, but the hedgerow! I’m not quite finished.”
“I’m not having you working on that hedgerow while he’s here.”
“I care nothing for his good opinion.”
Her mother’s knife clattered onto her plate. “Emma, I won’t have it said we lost our respectability along with our good fortune. Now, if you’ve finished pushing your breakfast around your plate, you can go up and put on your best gown and your claret pelisse, along with your Sunday bonnet.”
Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes and protest that she was perfectly capable of choosing her own apparel, Emma went upstairs to prepare for Tidworth’s next visit.
After changing her clothes, she could find no occupation that stopped her stomach lurching each time she heard a noise outside. The longer she waited, the more violent the sensation, until she thought she must be ill. Finally, a good hour later than expected, Tidworth hove into view atop his splendid stallion.
She walked out to greet him, grateful that her bonnet threw her face into shadow, concealing the heat that burned in her cheeks. She couldn’t understand why he affected her so, like a green girl with a tendre. She didn’t even like the man!
He leaped from his horse, staggering a little before handing the reins to the family’s one remaining groom. As he came toward her, his gait was awkward, and she wondered if he’d stayed up late carousing the night before.
She hoped he had.
Then she could go back to despising him.
His voice as he greeted her was surprisingly soft, with no hint of the irritation or loftiness of the previous day. Taking her hand with the utmost courtesy, he conveyed it to his lips and asked after her health and that of her parents.
All very right and proper. Yet there was something different about him today—besides the fact that he might be suffering from having been in his cups the night before. Perhaps he was more fluid in his movements, more relaxed in her company, and more at home after his initial visit to Tresham.
“You will see I’m no coward,” he said. “I’ve come again, ready to face whatever vile slander you want to throw at me.”
Ignoring his taunt, she said, “I’ve been asked to show you around the gardens today.”
His gray eyes twinkled. “Are we to have a chaperone?”
“I’m of an age where that won’t be necessary.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of myself—I might need protection from your cutting disapproval.”
Her head snapped up. He was teasing her? Maybe even fishing for compliments?
But why?
“I shall endeavor to curb my tongue,” she promised, smiling deliberately up at him.
“Excellent. Then let’s begin our perambulations.”
The next quarter of an hour was spent in companionable conversation as she escorted the viscount around the gardens. The kitchen and herb gardens—as well as the espaliered fruit trees—had been kept in good repair, but the ancient knot and flower gardens were choked with brambles and cleavers. The roses, stocks, and clove pinks gifted their fragrance to the welcoming summer breeze but grew untidy if unchecked.
“Of course, all this will have to be cleared,” Tidworth said, gazing from the organized chaos of the flowerbeds to the wild woods beyond.
“I beg your pardon?” A beat of panic awoke in her breast.
“I mean, these narrow pathways won’t suit the veterans. Some have Bath chairs, invalid chairs, and crutches, so I’d need to take up the gardens and put down plain lawns. They could walk as far as they liked then, without fear of catching on something, or tripping.”
Her heart squeezed painfully. But she loved these gardens!
“Surely, just a little pruning would make the pathways more accessible?”
“Too costly in the long run. A lawn would require less maintenance.”
She pondered this for a while, biting down on her lip. “And what of the house interior? Will that be suitable for your veterans’ needs?”
It hadn’t occurred to her that some of the soldiers Tidworth wanted to help would be physically impaired. She’d just assumed they were elderly, veterans of older conflicts than the Napoleonic wars.
“The interior would have to be gutted to open out spaces for an infirmary and dining hall, and the floors must be dug deeper to give the rooms more height. The windows would need replacing, as well, as they admit too little light. Many veterans have problems with their eyes, you understand—damage from dust, splinters, and smoke.”
He didn’t notice she’d stopped walking alongside him until he reached the end of the old brick path leading to the walled garden. When he turned to her with a questioning frown, she clenched her fists, ready to do battle. How could he possibly desecrate her family home like this? He was going to rip out the very heart of Tresham! He might as well just demolish the place and start anew.
As he came closer, she realized with a heavy heart there was to be no truce between them. She had to stop him buying Tresham at all cost.
If only she could think of an alternative to the sale…
“Sir,” she began. “I beg you to look elsewhere for your veterans’ home.”
Her mind worked frantically. How could she convince him not to buy the place when, for much of yesterday, Mama and Papa had been concentrating on persuading him that he must?
“Why must I look elsewhere?” he asked, coming closer.
“Because…it will surely be very expensive to make all these alterations. If you find a building that already has bigger windows, taller ceilings, and so on, would that not save your charity money?”
His eyes darkened with suspicion as he came face-to-face with her. “That’s not the real reason,” he said. “Be honest with me, Emma.”
Damn him! She couldn’t think straight when he was standing so close, looking at her like that. It felt as if he was scouring her soul.
“Very well,” she conceded reluctantly. “I simply don’t want you tearing my home apart.”
He lifted his chin and gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You think me a vandal, I believe. When all I care about is the veterans’ comfort.”
“It would be easy enough to find a different house that you won’t have to ruin to meet your needs. Tresham has a history dating back to medieval times—all of that would be lost.”
“What do medieval times matter,” he snapped, his face paling, “when soldiers are suffering? Honorable men who have served their country well. People are more important than bricks and mortar, or even marble and plaster. Surely, you realize that, Emma? I’m not having injured or crippled men cracking their heads on too low doorframes, or walking into tables because there’s not enough light, or falling down narrow steps because there’s no space for a handrail.”
“Of course not! But then find somewhere else! Somewhere more suitable than here,” she bit back at him. “In fact, you can begin looking right now. I’m going to find Papa and tell him to turn down any offer you make. He would never have encouraged you to buy the place if he’d known what you planned for it.”
“Emma, wait! Please!”
She shot him a defiant look over her shoulder, then saw him stagger and put out a hand to steady himself against the quince tree. His face was white as a sheet.
It took a moment to realize that the viscount was genuinely ill. Forgetting their enmity, she hurried back to support him.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“No, no,” he replied weakly. “Just a little tired. Perhaps we might sit down a moment.”
But he couldn’t even make it as far as the stone bench. He clung with one hand to the tree, the other clutching her shoulder while she supported his weight as best she could. Thankfully, the manservant, Arthur, came running in response to her shouts.
Tidworth was now breathing rapidly, each breath a shuddering torment. Whatever had come over him? Was there something in the garden he was reacting to, perhaps? Or was his evening at the inn finally catching up with him?
“Help me get him into the house,” she told Arthur. “He’s been taken ill and must go to bed immediately.”
“D’ye think he can manage the stairs, miss?” the servant asked, visibly shocked by the viscount’s condition.
“Perhaps not. We’ll set him down in the hall while I get Sarah to make up that old truckle bed in the parlor. It might do more harm than good to try getting him up the stairs.”
Her mother and father burst out of the drawing room, then froze in shock as Emma struggled to loosen the viscount’s cravat and clothing. His whole body was shaking now—this was more serious than too many tankards of ale.
“Don’t crowd me, please,” she exhorted them. “Mama, could we get some thin gruel or barley water made up?”
“Oh, if only George were still here!” her mother exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “He’d know what to do at once.”
That rankled. But as the viscount had reminded her numerous times, Emma’s knowledge of medicine was at best thirdhand. George would doubtless know better than she what to do in these circumstances. All she could do was look things up in books and make informed decisions until the local physician could be sent for.
Papa said, “This violent shivering reminds me of the ague I had a few weeks ago.”
“Oh great heavens, what will become of us if Rossbury’s heir were to die here at Tresham?” wailed Mama.
“He’s not going to die on us,” Emma said stoutly. “Are you, my lord?”
But there was no answer.
The viscount was no longer conscious.