Chapter 28
One Day Later
E mily made sure to choose the hour carefully before leaving the house.
Adam would be out riding if the house still kept to its old habits. He had always gone early when he wanted air, distance, or the illusion of both.
She clung to that knowledge all the way to Huxley Manor and hated herself a little for how much of him still lived in her bones.
When the carriage stopped, she sat still for one breath and looked up at the house.
It looked the same.
That was the cruelty of familiar places. The walls stood where they always had, and the windows caught the pale morning light in the same way. The front steps waited, and a footman came down at once when he saw her and bowed with just enough surprise to make her chest tighten.
“Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Collins,” Emily greeted.
His face softened. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The title stung, but for now, she let it pass. She had something to do, and the best way to do it was quickly. The last thing she wanted was for Adam to get back before she had managed to leave with all her things.
Inside, the hall smelled faintly of beeswax and morning fire. It felt familiar and wrong at once, as if the house had remembered her more kindly than she had any right to expect.
She took off her gloves slowly, listening. A wave of familiar voices carried from the family sitting room, and her throat thickened.
A maid passed and stopped short, the surprise she had seen on Collin’s face now flashing across hers. “Your Grace.”
“Are Harriet and Theodore in there?” Emily asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
She took one step, then another, and when she reached the door, Harriet looked up first.
“Emily!” The girl launched herself off the sofa so hard that Theodore had to snatch Gilbert out of the way before she trampled him.
Emily barely had time to kneel before Harriet hit her full force and wrapped both arms around her neck.
“Oh,” she breathed.
That was all she could manage for one second because the relief in the little body clinging to her became too much. Then, she gathered Harriet close and kissed her hair.
“Hello, darling.”
Harriet pulled back only far enough to look at her face. “You came back.”
“Yes.”
Gilbert, rescued but offended, wriggled in Theodore’s arms and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a complaint.
Theodore stood by the fireplace, one hand under the dog and the other in his pocket. He looked older than he should have. He also looked glad enough to break her heart.
“Hello, Theodore,” Emily greeted.
“Hello,” he returned. And then, because he could never bear naked feeling for long, he added, “Gilbert thinks you abandoned him.”
“Oh well,” Emily exhaled, seeing through his words. “I am certain he will survive my absence.”
That earned her the smallest shift in his expression.
Harriet was still holding on to her sleeve. “Is it my fault?”
Emily went still. “Why would you ask me that?”
Harriet’s eyes filled at once. “Because you went away, and Gilbert stayed with me, and maybe you thought I stole him, and maybe you’re cross, and maybe that is why you’re leaving.”
The logic was so childish and so devastating that Emily had to gather herself before answering. She cupped Harriet’s little face gently in both hands and made sure the child looked right at her.
“Listen to me. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing . It is never your fault when grown people do foolish things.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“And Gilbert?”
“Gilbert is an opportunist,” Emily said. “He would choose anyone with butter on their fingers.”
Harriet gave a wet, uncertain laugh.
Emily kissed her forehead. “You did nothing wrong. Do you understand me?”
Harriet nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Theodore set Gilbert down at last, and the dog went straight to Emily. He rose on his hind legs and pressed his front paws against her skirt, as though he had indeed been the wronged party in all this.
Emily bent and scratched behind his ears. “And you, mister,” she said quietly, “you have behaved abominably.”
Gilbert sneezed, coaxing a genuine laugh from Harriet.
The sound steadied the room as Theodore came closer, slower than his sister had, but with no less real feeling.
“I am glad you came,” he said.
Emily looked up at him. “So am I.”
He shrugged once. “Harriet has been asking whether you would come back every few hours, and Gilbert kept sleeping by the door like an idiot.”
“I heard that,” Harriet protested, raising her head to look at her brother.
Theodore shrugged. “Well, you were meant to.”
Emily sat with them after that because leaving at once would have been impossible.
Harriet climbed beside her and tucked herself under Emily’s arm as if reclaiming a right.
Theodore took the chair opposite, long legs stretched out, trying for casual and failing every so often when his eyes lingered on her face for too long.
Gilbert turned in circles on the rug and then settled against her feet with a dramatic sigh.
For a little while, it almost felt ordinary. Like this was where she was meant to be.
Harriet showed her a ribbon she had tied badly around one of the wooden animals, and Theodore spoke once in a while about ordinary things happening around the house.
Emily listened, answered, laughed when she could, and felt the ache of belonging move through her with fresh sharpness.
This was the worst of it.
Not only losing Adam, but losing this too. This room. These children, their affection for this ridiculous dog, and the tiny habits and easy speech of everyone around her.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Harriet asked suddenly.
Emily’s hand stilled in Gilbert’s fur. “No, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
Theodore interjected, “Because grown people are annoying.”
Harriet considered this. “That is true.”
Emily almost laughed again. “I cannot stay long today.”
Harriet’s mouth turned down. “But you came all this way.”
“I know.”
The child leaned against her harder. “I wish you could stay.”
Emily closed her eyes for one brief second. “So do I, dear. So do I.”
She was running her hand over Harriet’s hair when a sound came from the hall, spurring her awake and conscious of how long she had spent with the children instead of packing the rest of her clothes.
Oh no.
Voices followed quite immediately, after which a footman appeared. Then a footstep, heavier, familiar before she had properly heard it.
Her whole body reacted.
Theodore saw it first. His gaze shifted to the doorway. Harriet, blessedly, was too busy trying to balance one of the toy animals on Gilbert’s back to notice.
Adam was home.
Emily stood so quickly that the room spun for a bit.
Harriet looked up, catching that. “What is it?”
Emily cleared her throat. “I have to go.”
The little girl furrowed her brow. “Already?”
Emily nodded. “Yes.”
Theodore had gone very still. He knew exactly what that footstep in the hallway meant. So did she.
“Emily,” Harriet said, close to tears again.
Emily dropped to her knees, kissed her warmly, and then kissed Theodore too, because if she stopped to think, she would lose her nerve altogether.
“I love you both very much,” she murmured.
Harriet blinked. “Even if Gilbert chooses to stay with me?”
Emily smiled despite everything. “Even then.”
The voices in the hallway drew nearer, and she rose and moved to the door. For one impossible second, she saw Adam at the far end of the hallway, close enough to be recognizable. He had just come in from outside, and she could see that one glove was still in his hand. His hair was wind-swept.
He looked up, saw her, and stopped so sharply it almost felt like a blow.
The whole world narrowed, and for a brief second, neither of them spoke. Harriet said something behind her that she did not catch. A maid crossed the hall with folded linen and then slowed when she sensed the charged silence without understanding it.
Adam took half a step, as if instinct had moved him before thought could stop him.
Emily turned away and left before the moment could become a scene and before Harriet could ask more questions. By the time she reached the front steps, her heart was beating hard enough to make the air feel thin.
Even as she climbed into the carriage and headed back home, all she could think about was the strained look on his face when he saw her.
Three days later, after watching her sulk around the house rather unnecessarily, her friends decided to drag her to the Opera.
In fact, dragged was the right word for it. Frances called it an outing, while Sybella said it was necessary.
“You cannot keep hiding in your room,” Sybella said while fastening one of Emily’s bracelets.
“I am not hiding,” Emily protested.
“You have cried for three days,” Marina pointed out.
“That is a separate hobby.”
Leonora snorted. “Is it also a hobby of yours to look dreadful?”
“Thank you, Leonora. That was kind,” Emily said sullenly.
“It is meant with love ,” Leonora said. “And concern.”
Frances looked at her in the mirror. “You are going to the opera, and that’s it, Emily. No more questions.”
Emily stared back at her own reflection in the mirror and exhaled. The constant crying had taken the softness out of her face and left her looking strained and older. No amount of powder quite fixed it.
“Well, at least it means you still care about the Duke,” Marina said, her voice sharp. “Perhaps there is still a flicker of hope, after all.”
Emily snorted. “No. I do not care what becomes of Adam anymore.”
Sybella’s eyebrows rose, while Marina said nothing at all.
Leonora adjusted one curl near Emily’s temple and sighed.“That is how we know you still do.”
Emily opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again because the effort was beyond her.
At the opera house, the brightness of the place made her grief feel almost indecent. The ladies glittered, and the gentlemen around her all bowed. The boxes were full, and music swelled somewhere beyond the curtain.
Frances moved through the crowd with determined poise, and Sybella kept one eye on Emily and one on everyone else. Marina and Leonora flanked her such that the mere thought of escape became impossible.
Emily took her seat, lifted her chin, and tried to look like a woman attending an evening of culture rather than a woman whose heart had been broken well enough to leave marks.
She had said she did not care. The way her heart pounded at the mere thought of him said otherwise.