Choosing Her Earl at Last
Chapter 1
“It has been my experience that change is seldom desirable,” Marchioness Emmeline Livingston, nee Frampton, informed her lady’s maid stiffly as their carriage bounced along the cobblestone streets of London, winding its way toward the Frampton family’s town house.
The bitterness in her own voice made her grimace as she scanned the hordes of people running to and fro about their daily business.
She turned whisky amber eyes toward her companion in apology for her sharpness of tone.
Whisps of auburn hair fluttered across her cheeks with the breeze through the windows, soft as a butterfly’s wings upon her skin.
Sarah gave her mistress a sympathetic look.
Her gentle dove gray eyes held compassion, but also wisdom beyond her thirty-five years.
“Change is a constant in life, my lady. It is best to come to terms with it early in life so as to save oneself from a continual state of fear.” She gave Emmeline a reassuring smile.
“Returning to London for the Season will be good for you if you leave your heart open to the enriching possibilities that change can bring.”
Emmeline had hidden away from society as a whole during her first six months of mourning for the death of her husband, Norman Livingston, the Marquess of Worthington.
She did not miss him. Theirs had been a cold marriage without issue, and the estate had been passed on to Norman’s younger brother, Harry.
It was customary for a wife to mourn her husband for the span of a year. At six months, one could forego the wearing of solid black for the half-mourning grays and muted shades of purple.
Emmeline had opted for a lavender dress with soft gray trim. It was elegant, understated, and went beautifully with her natural coloring.
She eyed her lady’s maid thoughtfully across the confines of the carriage. “You may be right, but it has not served me well in the past.”
“I know, my lady, and sorry I am for it.” Sadness flickered across Sarah’s face. She had traveled with Emmeline from the Frampton family home in England to her husband’s Scottish estate upon their marriage.
She had been privy to everything that had occurred within Emmeline’s life. They had no secrets from one another. When the news had come that Norman had died in a fire during one of his many trips abroad, mistress and servant had breathed a synchronous sigh of relief that it was finally over.
Now, as Emmeline contemplated the crush of humanity that was London and the ton, she for a brief moment wished that she were back in Scotland.
None of that now, she silently chastised herself. I will face whatever may come with courage and dignity. I only pray that my family does not attempt to wed me off once more upon the conclusion of my mourning period.
She lifted her chin in defiance. Never again would she allow herself to be bartered to the highest bidder. She had been young and na?ve when her family had arranged her marriage to Norman.
She had been in love with another man, but she had not been given a say in the matter. While her family gained immensely from her marriage to a Marquess, she had lived to regret their decision more with every passing day.
“Freedom from an unwanted marriage is a positive change, is it not?” Sarah pointedly reminded her.
Emmeline inclined her head in agreement. “True,” she conceded. “As long as it is not immediately followed by another unwanted marriage.”
Sarah’s eyes told Emmeline that she knew she was right, and she did not argue.
“You are young yet and could still marry and bear children, my lady. We both know that your family will not waste time in procuring another match for you. My advice is to enjoy the next six months of freedom that your widowhood allows. Let the troubles of tomorrow remain in the future. Today has enough concerns of its own.”
Emmeline sighed, turning her amber gaze back to the swarm of humanity rushing by her carriage window. “At least I will get to see my sister again. It has been too long, and I miss her radiant smile.”
As if on cue, the carriage turned the final corner and came to a stop in front of the Frampton family townhouse.
“Emmeline!” Her sister, Rebecca, came running down the stairs to greet them, her thick blonde curls bouncing golden in the sun. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled with joy as she flung her arms around Emmeline’s waist and embraced her exuberantly, the moment that Emmeline’s feet touched the ground.
She had barely descended from the carriage and was nearly toppled over back into it with the force of her sister’s excitement.
“Rebecca,” Emmeline greeted with a smile. She laughed delightedly as she returned her sister’s embrace. “It is wonderful to see you. You look well and happy.”
Rebecca leaned back and examined her sister’s face. “You look as lovely as ever, but there is a sadness to you that befits a woman of more advanced years. Your sorrow has aged you.”
Emmeline had never been able to hide anything from Rebecca. Her younger sister had an uncanny, intuitive nature that had a way of seeing all the way to a person’s soul. “I am in mourning,” Emmeline reminded her gently, brushing aside the truth of her feelings for a more acceptable excuse.
Rebecca cocked her head to the side, her eyes meeting Emmeline’s. “While the rest of society might believe that your husband’s death is the cause of your sorrow, I do not. I saw how the two of you were together, and there was no love lost between you.”
Movement from the corner of her eye drew Emmeline’s attention toward the Frampton threshold. Silent and rigid as a statue in a black dress stood their mother, Theodocia.
“Mother,” Emmeline greeted with a nod.
“Emmeline,” her mother’s cold clipped tone fell on her ears like icicles on a cold winter’s day. Her eyes passed over Emmeline’s half-mourning garb with disapproval but said nothing more.
It was her nature to be prim and proper at all times; such manners having been drilled into her since birth. Exuberance of affection was beyond her. Having greeted her daughter, Theodocia turned and reentered the house as silently as she had appeared.
“I see that she has remained in black,” Emmeline observed, stung by her mother’s reproachful gaze.
Rebecca nodded. “Mother has been a wraith since Father’s passing,” Rebecca murmured, watching her mother’s retreating back with concern.
“She has never been one for displays of emotion,” Emmeline reminded her.
“This is true,” Rebecca agreed, “But she is hurting and mourning Father in her own way, nevertheless. The house is not the same without him, and neither is she.”
Emmeline nodded in understanding. Their father had been a powerful force in all of their lives.
While she was still bitter over her arranged marriage to the marquess, she loved her parents and mourned her father’s loss as well.
“When you come out this Season, it should bring her some joy,” Emmeline offered in an attempt to provide some comfort to her sister’s worries.
The sparkle returned to Rebecca’s eyes. “I am so happy that you are here. How long do you plan to stay?” she asked as she pulled Emmeline into the house and through to the dining room, where a light luncheon had been laid out for her arrival, leaving Sarah in charge of the servants to wrestle the bags from the carriage.
“You know that I am home to stay, Rebecca,” Emmeline reminded her, uncomfortable with the turn of conversation.
“My husband’s younger brother, Harry, inherited the estate and title as we had no children. Harry graciously allowed me to remain at the estate during my time of full mourning, but it was time that I returned to England as the new marquess wished to procure a wife of his own.”
“As is proper,” Theodocia replied as she glided past the girls to take her seat at the table. “Providing an heir is imperative. It is a wife’s most sacred and solemn duty to provide her husband with a son to inherit his title and estates.”
The tone in her voice left no doubt as to her feelings pertaining to Emmeline’s lack of children.
Emmeline bit her tongue so as not to point out that Theodocia had not provided her husband with a living son either.
The Frampton women had been fortunate in that their father’s estate had gone to a kindhearted cousin who allowed them to remain in their London townhouse, while he lived at the country estate.
“Did you ever discover what caused the fire that killed your husband?” Rebecca asked, her usual curiosity of mind coming to the fore.
Theodocia shot her youngest daughter with a warning look. “It is not appropriate for a young lady to discuss such matters,” she chastised, sparing Emmeline a concerned glance. Her tired green eyes held shadows that spoke of a lifetime of duty and pained propriety.
Emmeline inclined her head in reassurance to her mother that she was not upset by the question. “No, there has been no further news on the matter.” Out of respect for her mother, Emmeline left it at that and did not elaborate, much to her sister’s disappointment.
“Most fires are accidents, such as a candle left burning too close to drapery, or a spark from a fireplace landing on dry kindling,” Rebecca went on, oblivious to or not caring about the distress she was causing their mother.
“But some fires are set intentionally, arson, I do believe it is called,” Rebecca mused.
“The Woolery Mill caught fire just last week when a worker foolishly lit a pipe.
The poor workers barely escaped with their lives.
The mill owner nearly beat the man to death for what happened when he discovered the truth of it, and his family nearly starved while they awaited his recovery so that he could go back to work.
If the workers were given better working conditions and regular breaks for such things as smoking or eating, they would not be forced to do such things. The conditions of these mills are truly deplorable, as are the laborers’ living conditions.”
“Rebecca!” Theodocia reprimanded once more, her brows arched in shock, but her eyes held icy disapproval. “Wherever have you been learning such things?”
“I pay attention.” Rebecca shrugged, lowering her eyes to her plate, but not before Emmeline caught a glimpse of rebellious fire within their green depths.
“Perhaps you should be paying less attention to public rabble, and more attention to finding a husband this Season,” Theodocia firmly advised.
Rebecca stabbed a piece of fruit with her fork, but she did not eat it. A heavy weighted silence fell upon the room, as each woman tentatively picked at the food on their plate.
Emmeline risked a questioning glance at Rebecca, but was ignored.
Where did she learn such information? Proper young ladies, such as the ones our mother has raised, know not to speak of such things as labor disputes and poverty-stricken living conditions.
Rebecca spoke with such authority as if she had seen these conditions with her own eyes.
Our mother would not even allow us to tend to the poor as our Christian duty might require. She always sent the maids to do any charity work we were called to do.
While Emmeline had done what she could for the tenants under her care as the marchioness of her husband’s estate and gained some knowledge in the doing, Rebecca had never been allowed anywhere near the parts of London that she had so passionately spoken of.
“There is a caller at the door for you, mistress,” the family butler intoned as he came to stand just to the side and behind Theodocia.
Nodding, Theodocia arose from the table. “I will receive them in the blue drawing room.” With a warning look to her daughters that they were to behave in her absence, she left the room.
“Where did you gain such knowledge?” Emmeline asked once their mother was out of earshot. “I cannot imagine that you simply heard it from a passerby. Did one of the servants speak with you on the matter?” If so, their mother would be certain to fire them immediately.
Rebecca lifted her head, defiance shining from her eyes. “Ignoring the world is a mistake,” she informed her sister, not actually answering her question. “One must simply open one’s eyes to see the truth.”
“I have always admired your spirit, dear sister. Be certain that it is not your ruin,” Emmeline advised, as she watched the fire of passion flare once more in her sister’s eyes. “Be certain that it is not the ruin of us all.”