Chapter Twenty-Four
“I suppose you’ve come to reprimand me for missing the dressmaker’s appointment this afternoon.”
Emma sighed. She’d only walked into the front parlor and already Charlotte’s hackles were raised. “Where were you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte closed the book in her hands. “I didn’t feel well. I stayed in my room. I’m only now feeling a little better, if you care to know.”
“I checked your room, as I’m sure you’d expect.”
“So I wasn’t in my room,” she said easily, showing no shame for the prior lie. “Am I to be a prisoner in this house? Do I not have any freedom?”
Emma was exhausted of repeating essentially this same conversation. It was the fourth in the same number of days concerning either the dressmaker or the dance master.
“You are a young, unmarried lady, Charlotte. You cannot go missing for periods of time without putting your reputation at risk. You are also expected to keep appointments that are made on your behalf, particularly those with someone who has gone through a great deal of trouble and traveled all the way from London to meet you. Madame Desmarais refused to return until I reminded her of the sheer volume of garments you require.”
Emma stopped. She exhaled. She would not lecture Charlotte on her behavior. She’d done enough of that over the past week and she was weary of it. She was weary of so many things and needed a distraction.
“Charlotte,” she began again, this time adopting a conciliatory tone. “I don’t want to engage in a debate. What’s done is done. I think perhaps what we both need is some time out of doors. I thought we could have a ride together.”
“A ride?” Charlotte asked, her voice rising. “Do you mean ride horses?” Charlotte stared up at Emma as though she had just suggested they acquire some rope to practice scaling the manor walls in case of fire.
“Yes, I mean ride horses. The mounts Mr. Brydges brought for us are splendid animals. You’ve never even seen yours, but she’s lovely.” It was true. Whatever else she found lacking in Mr. Brydges, he clearly had a keen eye for horseflesh.
“I don’t want to ride.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t see why you people of quality have such a fascination with horse riding. They are dirty, smelly, ornery animals.”
Emma had never met a horse as ornery as her new sister-in-law, but she desperately wanted to go riding and so chose to keep that thought to herself. “Come now, Charlotte. You complain of confinement. Here I am offering you an afternoon of fresh air and freedom.”
Emma needed to do something to bring herself joy, or risk becoming overwhelmed with melancholy. So far, the task of preparing Charlotte for the season had proven to be an endless source of frustration. The girl clearly possessed no desire to become prepared and thus chose avoidance or objection instead of cooperation on all possible occasions. Perhaps Emma could have weathered these challenges more happily if she had the benefit of an ally in her husband, but he seemed to have abandoned the entire effort to Emma’s management. He seemed to have completely forgotten he had a wife or a sister at all, as he had become so absorbed in the estate he rarely encountered the ladies except at dinner—when he and Mr. Brydges were not so engaged as to miss dinner altogether. John had come to her room precisely twice since returning to Brantmoor—not every night, not even most nights, and she knew now he did not stay. He always returned to his own chamber. She couldn’t help but be glad every time he came, but every time he left, she had the sense he saw their coupling as somehow wrong or shameful. She would have asked him about it, but wasn’t entirely sure of the question. Besides, she could never locate him anyway. He was always off somewhere with Mr. Brydges.
“If you value fresh air and freedom, then by all means go riding. I’m not going.”
“Not going where?” Mr. Brydges asked, entering the room just as Emma was desiring his absence from their midst.
Lovely. In addition to ensuring her husband’s constant absence, Mr. Brydges had been a significant contributor to Charlotte’s ill disposition. He was the last thing this conversation required for improvement.
“Riding, Mr. Brydges,” Charlotte said pointedly. “I am not going riding.”
“A worthy skill to possess, riding,” Mr. Brydges contributed, predictably taking a contrary position to Charlotte’s. Then again, Charlotte was so contrary all the time, it was difficult not to do so.
“I am not particularly interested in that ‘worthy skill,’” Charlotte declared, crossing her arms in front of her as she sat erect on the sofa. “If both of you desire a ride, I suggest you take one together and leave me in peace.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed as she spoke and her mouth was set in a firm pout at the conclusion of her speech. Emma could recognize after only a week of the signs of Charlotte’s rising temper and did not particularly wish to witness it flaring just then.
“It was only a suggestion, Charlotte. We do not have to ride today,” Emma offered.
Mr. Brydges clasped his hands together and brought two pointed fingers to his lips. “Ah, I see,” he said dramatically, as though he had solved a puzzle of some complication.
Charlotte’s attention snapped to Mr. Brydges. “What do you see?” she sniped.
He placed a hand upon his chest. “If I were a miniature person, I believe I would also be frightened of horses.” He addressed Emma next when he said, “Perhaps we can fit a saddle for a small pony or even a large hound for Lady Charlotte to learn to ride.”
Emma found herself cursing the timing that had brought Mr. Brydges into the parlor just then. Wasn’t he needed somewhere by the duke? Had he no sympathy for Emma, who would be left to deal with Charlotte’s foul mood once he’d finished with his game?
Charlotte rose from her seat. “I am not frightened.”
“No? Perhaps we should adjourn to the stables now then, so the lesson may begin. I’m a fairly accomplished rider, if I may say so. I’d be happy to tutor you.”
“We’ve no need of your assistance, Mr. Brydges,” Emma interjected.
“I’ve already informed the duchess I’ve no intention of riding this afternoon,” Charlotte said, placing closed fists on either side of a tiny waist.
Mr. Brydges turned to Emma. “You do see it, don’t you? She’s deathly afraid of the beasts, poor thing. Why I think she’s near to tears.”
The thought had not occurred to Emma, but now that Mr. Brydges had pointed it out in his usual frank and insensitive manner, she wondered if that weren’t the case. If Charlotte had reached the age of eighteen, having never ridden her entire life…well, it was a distinct possibility. Of course, Mr. Brydges could not possibly have made his comment with less sympathy or understanding.
Afraid or not, Charlotte was nowhere near tears. Her blue eyes glittered like shards of brittle glass as she glared at Mr. Brydges. “Do you honestly think I’m so malleable that I could be tricked into riding just to prove I’m not afraid? I’ve known since we met you are an insensitive lout. As it happens, you are also a fool.”
Emma did not believe Charlotte’s glare could have become more hateful, more menacing, but it did. She advanced on Mr. Brydges as though stalking him.
“You may as well take your foul-smelling horse back home with you, Mr. Brydges. Because, I assure you, James Madison will swear fealty to the crown before I ever sit atop that animal.” She turned her back to them and was, once again, gone.
Emma could have screamed. As it was, she released a huff of air before turning in exasperation to the meddlesome Mr. Brydges. “Are you pleased, now? You’ve driven her into a corner and she will never ride at all—purely because of her dislike of you.” She set her hands at her own hips. “A dislike, I might add, with which I can currently sympathize.”
The man shrugged back at with an annoyingly smug expression.
“She’s right, isn’t she?” Emma demanded. “You were trying to goad her into it. Did you really think that would be effective?”
“Without question. She may have realized the ploy, but it does not necessarily follow that it didn’t work. She’ll prove me wrong. She’ll have to prove me wrong.”
“You are the blindest seeing man I’ve ever known. She will never ride that horse. She cannot because she has declared she will not. That girl, Mr. Brydges, has more stubborn will than Napoleon himself.”