Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
E mma sat at her bedchamber window where the afternoon light was best, embroidering a row of leaves along the hem of one of her stockings, green on white, these stitches not hidden by color because they’d be hidden by skirts.
The needle hit her finger, and she hissed, biting her finger to combat the sharp pain with a duller one. She held a handkerchief against the tiny wound as her gaze darted, for the thousandth time that day, to the window. And beyond the glass to the garden, the statue, that low-branched tree where Clearford had kissed her.
She was decorating her stockings to avoid the letter she must pen, but perhaps the needle in her flesh was a sign. She could put it off no longer. They’d not met today because they’d kissed last night, but that did not absolve her of her duties.
She must complete a full report on Felicity’s progress seeking a match. Written in ink because she’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back, and if he’d taken things further, she would have complied. Gladly. Written in ink because what if they did it again?
Paper, ink, sand—she arranged it all and sat, hand poised and waiting for the words to come. Did she acknowledge the kiss? Or not?
Not. Absolutely not.
Your Grace,
As we discussed last night, your sister’s suitors appear more ardent with the arrival of more competition. I have gathered the following information about each man:
Mr. Sinclair comes from a large family, and he has many younger siblings, which you likely know, but what you might not be aware of is how lovely he is to them. I have seen them interact in the park. A man good with children is a man for your sister, I am convinced.
But Sir Rexley is not without his own charms. An only child, he appears hungry for attention, but not without deep connection. His friends are those he has maintained since childhood, and they are all solid, dependable fellows, a few of whom are married and quite devoted to their wives. Additionally, he enjoys playing parlor games, as does Felicity. A man and woman who play well together and often are likely to make a happy match.
As I suggested last night, you should have a discussion with Lord Bransley. I know I cannot be there to listen to the conversation, as I would like, but I trust you to tell me everything.
Lady Emma Blackwood
Should she cut out the first part of the last sentence? It clearly referred to reasons she could not be in the same room as the man. No, she would send it on its way and spend no more time on it. Fussing over half a sentence felt too much like fussing over the man himself. Her heart ached badly enough today without that further fear. She sanded it, folded it, and sent it across the street.
Samuel traced the curves of his mother’s name with his fingertip. Emma’s letter lay glowing on the dark wood of the desk, her handwriting lovely and looping, catching him up, tying him in knots. He liked her even at a distance. The letter… a necessary distance, but somehow also… intimate. The letter his sign, his means, of remaining entirely cold and formal with his matchmaker.
Yet damn it right to hell, he felt playful reading it.
Formal.
Playful.
Formal…
His finger curled around the letters carved into his desk more quickly, and then in one sweep, he picked up his pen and added to the paper just below her writing.
Lady Emma,
I believe I prefer Sir Rexley so far. If he makes Felicity laugh, I can trust him. But do you think his hunger for attention may prove a difficulty? What if he becomes overly jealous or if he decides the attentions of a wife are not enough? Can you discover the answers to these questions? Please do so and report back to me.
As for Bransley… How should I speak to the man, do you think? I’m planning to entertain him in the art gallery as I sharpen my knives. I’ll throw open all the windows, and you can walk beneath them at the appointed time. I’ll speak loudly enough for you to hear, and if Bransley does not, I have ways of making him yelp.
S.M.
He should not send that. But it was written, and he was too damn tired to write another. So, he blew the ink dry, folded it along the same lines her fingers had created earlier, and sent it back across the square.
The first letter had been so very difficult to write, but the next was easy.
S.M,
Absolutely not. You possess a study, Your Grace. Or did you forget? You will, of course, conduct the interview there. Without knives. Without any hint of anything pointy.
But you may leave the window open if you like. And tell me the time and date the window will be open. If I happen to be out for a stroll at the time, it will only benefit the both of us.
And yes, naturally, I will discover answers to your questions. (They are excellent questions. See, you are not so bad at courtship as you think.)
E.B.
Using her initials felt more intimate, but he had started it, and perhaps it leant their exchange more anonymity. She sent the letter across the street in the hand of a jogging footman, then returned to her embroidery.
But not for long. The footman stuck his head through her open doorway, holding out the letter.
“Were you not able to deliver it?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. I delivered it. But he told me to wait and sent a reply immediately.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” She took the letter, and when the footman’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs, she opened it.
What about my letter opener? Must that go too?
Laughing so hard she clutched her belly, sat once more, and wrote.
Samuel was pacing his study when Emma’s response arrived.
“Wait in the entry hall,” Samuel ordered the footman. “I’ll not be long.”
Sitting at his desk, he unfolded the paper, and the sweep of Emma’s letters curved a smile across his face.
Must I raid your study for potential projectiles and possible pointy weapons? Or can I trust you to act like a sensible duke?
Likely she could not trust him because the first response to that sentence which popped into his head was a query over whether she’d raid his person, too. To search for knives, naturally. Slender fingers roaming everywhere across him.
He shifted in his chair, arranging himself to relieve the pressure of his hardening body, and wrote a response.
Emma waited at the window, palms and face almost smooshed into the glass as the footman ran around the garden square back toward her. She met the man at the top of the stairs.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the paper.
“Wait for another?” he asked, breathless.
She nodded, shut herself in her room, and unfolded the paper, her heart dancing.
I do not think I can be trusted. Not a bit. I wish you could join me. I would behave for you. I know it. I know, too, I should write none of this, but apparently, once you find your heart, it’s rather difficult to silence it.
I fear I do nothing but confuse you and reveal myself a rogue.
I should crumple this paper and throw it away. But I will not. Instead, it will serve as a reminder to the both of us of how shameless I am, of how important it is for you to despise me.
Tell me, what boon shall I give your father for loaning us your services? I do not think there is anything valuable enough.
Oh. Oh, yes… he was a rogue, wasn’t he? He must be! So easy to forget when laughing with him, talking and thinking with him, came so easily, so naturally. Yet he courted another woman while writing things like that to Emma. He made Emma’s heart trip, and he made her wish for things she’d never wished before. That a man would abandon one woman to chase Emma instead. If he valued her so highly, why continue courting Lady Huxley, the friendly Rosalie? Either he was a man who played with women’s hearts, or something else compelled him.
She pressed both palms to her heart. “I do not care. He does not truly care. ‘Tis words and nothing more. A rogue, a cad, a scoundrel.”
She believed none of it. But why? She should! Except something deep within her seemed to understand something deep within him. She knew him the way she knew herself.
What was it he’d written…? She hovered the pads of her fingers over the script— once you find your heart, it’s rather difficult to silence it. How painfully true. She squeezed a fist against that thumping, wailing organ and sat and wrote.
The letter trembled in Samuel’s hand as he read it a third time.
You must stop. I cannot believe you to be the sort of man to play with a woman’s feelings. Perhaps if I tell you a bit of my truth, you will not find me worth playing with any longer.
You ask what my worth is, what I charge for my services. I say you must ask my father.
After a match, my father hopes for money most. I am not supposed to speak of it or pretend it exists, but he needs it. We need it. You will, perhaps, shun the association with me and my family now. Usually, he is the one to do the negotiating. I never know what is exchanged. Cigars sometimes, I think. A residence once, oddly enough. And, yes, banknotes, too, some of which have gone to paying off my father’s vowels.
If I do not keep my reputation whole in London and find your sister a husband, he will find a rich man to pay for me.
If you continue as you have… keeping my reputation whole may not be possible. If you esteem me as you say, teach your heart to keep its silence.
Run to her, that was what his legs demanded he do. Run to her and—his arms added—fold her up in an embrace, never let her go, demand she tell him everything about the father who hollowed her out, about the threats hovering over her head held aloft only by the thinnest thread.
Instead, he sat and wrote.
And then he shoved his arms into his greatcoat and stuffed his hat on his head as he swung into the entry hall, his boots slapping against the marble floors. “Jack!” he bellowed when the footman didn’t magically appear without being summoned.
“What do you need Jack for?” Juney jolted down the stairs and stopped just before him, pointed chin tilted up. “Mr. Jacobs needed him for something upstairs.” Gertrude and Felicity descended behind her. They wore their spencers and bonnets and walking boots.
“Where are the lot of you off to?” Samuel grumbled.
“Across the square to visit with the Blackwood sisters,” Gertrude said. “Where are you off to?”
He handed them the letter folded tight in the palm of his hand. “Deliver this. To Lady Emma. Please? And don’t read it!” Hell, that sounded suspicious. He scratched the back of his neck and swung for the door. “It’s about Felicity’s potential match.”
Felicity took the epistle, one eyebrow raised. “Of course.”
“I’m insulted you think we’d read it.” Juney snorted.
He allowed himself a breath to look at them altogether in one place, bright and smiling and beautiful. Indignant, too, but he loved that just as much. Everything he did, he did for them and to mitigate the damage their unconventional education might confer on someone else.
He hugged them, wrapping his arms around them all, squeezing them tight.
They wriggled away.
“You crushed my bonnet,” Gertrude said, righting it.
“You crushed my lungs.” Felicity cinched her waist with her hands and heaved a breath at the ceiling.
Juney grinned wide. “Are you in need of hugs, Brother?”
“I’m in need of luck.” He opened the door, stepped into the day and into his blank future. “I’m off to ask for Lady Huxley’s hand in marriage.”
Emma’s entire body buzzed. She dropped to the bed on unsteady legs, the letter, soaked in the ink from both their hands on both sides, held loosely between tingling fingers. No more letters. Not after this one. She’d speed up her attempts to find Felicity a husband and leave as soon as possible. She folded the letter and threw it on top of her trunk. Then she dove for it and opened it once more, read it once more, letting gardens grow in her chest, then die.
Dearest Emma,
Let me call you that once and never again. Hate me for it. Perhaps hating me will make it easier for you, and that is my sole wish. You have other reasons to think ill of me. I think ill of myself. I marry under circumstances beyond my control.
The next three words were scratched out, though she could still read them— If I could choose . She lingered on them awhile, rubbing her thumb over the spiky ups and downs of his handwriting before moving on.
I will write to your father, for your sake, not his, and I will give him whatever he asks. And to you, I give the silence you demand.
I must say one more thing before that moment—your worth is greater than any jewel or vein of gold. The friendship your sisters have gifted my own, the moments you and I have shared. We must never talk of them, but I do not wish to forget them. I promised to do so, but I cannot, Emma. I cannot. They are treasures I will greedily hoard till my last breath. Everything I do is to protect those I admire and love, and I count you and your sisters in that group now.
I will never speak of my treasures again but to say this one final thing. I tried not to write it earlier, but it seems I must write it.
If I were free to choose, I would choose you.
She folded it again, knelt beside her trunk, and nestled it deep within, hidden, but there all the same. That’s the way she would remember this thing with Samuel Merriweather. No one would ever know of it; she would keep it as unknown as a shameful secret. But loneliness could never take her now. Not entirely. Not when she could hold the paper stained with his ink and dream of the day, the hour, she’d been loved.