Chapter 19
Nineteen
London traffic was bustling once they entered the city proper at well past noon, but after dropping Ben at Manchester Square, Emerson headed directly for Lady Stanford’s.
His coat was wrinkled, his boots dusty, and his temper stretched thin.
Ben hadn’t stopped talking for ten minutes straight the entire journey from Sussex—proof that Emerson was right to avoid his company.
Acknowledging the shift between them was something Emerson refused to dwell on.
Rose. Rose was the priority at hand. He had to find Rose.
Upon reaching Upper Brook Street, he didn’t even wait for Amir to stop the coach properly. The carriage wheels ground to a halt outside Stanford House, and Emerson was out the door and up the walk, pounding the knocker hard enough to startle a flock of pigeons from the neighboring roofline.
Lady Stanford’s butler opened the door with composed efficiency, which only deepened Emerson’s frustration.
“I must speak with Lady Stanford. Immediately.” His voice was more gravelly than usual due to the lack of sleep, Ben’s unending chatter, worry over an unknown blackmailer, Oscar’s whereabouts, and Rose’s safety.
Winston blinked, then ran a critical eye over Emerson that started with the scruff on his face to the dust on his boots, then back up. “Her ladyship is out.”
Emerson drew in a harsh breath. “Where the devil is she?”
“I beg your pardon, sir? Perhaps you would care to leave your card and I’ll relay it to her once she returns.”
Hell. Now he’d gone and offended the man’s sensibilities, as if his attire hadn’t already accomplished that feat. “I’ll wait.”
The man stiffened. “I don’t expect her ladyship to return before dinner.”
“I suppose she’s at Hope House?”
The butler’s lips firmed. “She failed to leave a schedule, sir.” The frost in his tone startled Emerson, and he narrowed his eyes on the man.
He didn’t approve of her independence…? After a long moment, the butler said with obvious reluctance, “This morning, not long after breakfast, the lady did mention her destination as Hope House for the day. Said it was a matter of fabric and”—he hesitated, as if sorting through a list of unorthodox excuses—“‘fitting etiquette into chaos,’ I believe were her words.”
“Fabric?” Hm. Emerson shook his head. “Never mind. Did she go alone?”
“She took a footman, of course, and her maid,” he said in a dignified huff.
“Thank God for that at least.” Emerson pushed a hand through his hair and studied the layout of the street. It was quiet, established, well-kept.
“And a stack of books,” her butler added, drawing back his attention.
He would not grin. “Books?”
“Quite a few. I expect anyone who interrupts her is likely to regret it.”
“Thank you for the information.” Emerson turned on his heel and started down the shallow steps.
“Shall I mention your visit, Mr. Whitmore?” Winston called.
“That won’t be necessary.” Emerson looked back, jaw tight. “She won’t need the message. I’ll find her myself.”
The door slammed behind him.
He stalked to his conveyance. “Hope House,” he told Amir.
Amir returned, his gaze roving Emerson’s attire down to his boots, “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Emerson glanced down. Gads, he couldn’t show up at Hope House looking like a beggar. This sudden need to check on her safety surprised him. Irritated him too.
Certainly, he was concerned. Hadn’t she confronted Billy Buster with no thought to her own well-being? No, his concern was justified.
He didn’t care to be blamed for any nefarious ending!
The thought sent a sharp prick through his chest. “Hope House first,” he bit out.
~~~
The dining room bustled with excited babble as the young women discussed fabric colors and more upcoming fittings. Rose sipped her tea, listening to Kadida and Gilly deliberate the differences between shell pink, cherry blossom, and blush.
Rose, seated next to Vella, turned to the seamstress. “When do you suppose the dresses will be completed? I’d like to schedule the tea with Antonia before too much time goes by. You know?” She didn’t add Kadida, but Vella’s gaze went to the girl.
Vella cleared her throat. “Ah, yes. I see your concern,” Vella said, her brows furrowing.
After a long pause, she gave a confident nod.
“Say, another couple of days? Most of the muslin fittings are complete. Gilly’s been tireless with her help, and we’ve a couple of new seamstresses that Her Grace rounded up.
They have been coming in daily. Perhaps by week’s end? ”
“Excellent,” Rose said. “I think I shall travel to Amersham this afternoon. I’d like to assess Antonia’s endurance for the task. I suspect her household could use another pair of hands.” She paused, softening. “And I… Frankly, I could use the quiet.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve earned it.” Vella smiled. “I’ll keep the girls focused. And I promise not a single etiquette jest during tea practice.”
That had Rose’s lips turning up. “That’s a shame. I was rather beginning to enjoy those.”
The drive to Buckinghamshire was but two and a half hours.
It was quite lovely traveling on a whim with no objection.
Independence was quite freeing, she decided.
Jane sat in the corner of Rose’s most comfortable chaise across from Rose, snoring slightly.
With a slight smile, Rose glanced out the windows, where trees were losing their leaves in the crisp fall and swirling about in a sharp breeze.
The chaise turned off the main road, and golden light slanted between broad oaks.
The scent of loamy earth and woodsmoke filled the autumn air.
The countryside unfolded like a breath released.
Within minutes, Rose and Jane descended from the carriage.
The door to the redbrick house was already swinging open.
“Rose!” Antonia waddled into view, face flushed, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. “I’d just told Mrs. Radley I smelled carriage leather and linen starch.”
Rose grinned and gathered her sister into a careful embrace. “You look…enormous.”
Antonia snorted. “You’ve always been my favorite sister. No luggage?”
“I’m here on a whim,” Rose said, shaking her head.
“No matter.” She looped her arm within Rose’s.
“You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ve plenty for you to wear much to my envy.
Mr. Tatton is currently in London.” She led Rose inside a wide, airy entry hall lined with polished oak flooring and crowned with a graceful staircase that curved gently to the right.
A long runner softened the footfall beneath a table where a porcelain dish held letters and calling cards, and a narrow vase displaying a bundle of late-autumn wildflowers—simple, but elegantly arranged. That was Antonia.
The sight left Rose feeling somewhat nostalgic, reminding her of their family seat in Dorchester when Papa was still duke. “The house looks lovely, Ann. You always worked such wonders.”
Antonia ordered tea from the housekeeper then led Rose through a set of double doors to a spacious drawing room painted a soft dove gray.
Tall sash windows let in the late afternoon light, their sheer linen curtains tied back with a matching pale ribbon.
A marble hearth framed the fire, over which hung a modest landscape—the Chiltern Hills bathed in morning mist, overlooking the hamlet of Amersham.
Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, Antonia, you’ve taken up your painting! It’s lovely.”
Her nose wrinkled. “What else am I to do? I can hardly travel with Mr. Tatton in this condition.” She didn’t sound resentful or sad. In fact, she sounded quite content.
The furnishings were tasteful and practical: a pair of matching armchairs upholstered in pale blue damask, a well-stuffed settee scattered with hand-embroidered cushions, and a low mahogany table with a tray bearing the remnants of an informal afternoon snack.
Books lined two walls—evidence of Mr. Tatton’s legal mind and interspersed with framed miniatures, obviously painted by her very talented sister.
It was the perfect setting for the young women of Hope House.
Rose took one of the armchairs. “How are you really, Antonia?”
“I’m very well, darling. I’ve notes from both Rebecca and Gabby. It sounds as if your rocky start at Hope House is smoothing out. Have you decided on a date for the young women’s visit?”
“That is one reason for my impromptu visit. The other was to see for myself how you are faring.”
“As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of hosting. That is if you don’t think this overblown stomach of mine will offend any delicate sensibilities. The young women sound absolutely fascinating.”
The housekeeper entered with a fresh tray and replaced the one on the low table before her discreet exit.
Rose leaned forward and poured her sister a cup and handed it to her.
“Miss Botha is with child,” Rose said, shaking her head.
“She’s only fourteen. Fourteen, Antonia.
” She poured a cup for herself and stared at the contents, not really seeing them at all.
“She apologizes for taking up space. As if she ought to be grateful just to be alive.” Her voice wavered, and she looked up.
“Their lives were…horrendous. And I—well, I’m doing my best not to say the wrong thing, but there’s such a divide between what I’ve known and what they’ve survived, I sometimes wonder if I help or merely fumble around in silk gloves. ”
Antonia’s gaze softened. “You’re showing up,” she said simply. “That counts for more than you realize.”
Rose let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her fingers tightened around the warm porcelain of her teacup.