Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The morning light in the herb garden painted everything a pale gold, warming the stones edging Juniper’s neat beds of lavender, chamomile, and rosemary.
Dew clung to the leaves like jewels on a duchess, turning each plant into a treasure both delicate and lovely.
Emily had always loved the early hours before expectations stirred, before anyone asked anything of her.
This morning, she wasn’t alone. Her parents kept her company.
She moved slowly along the path, the basket at her elbow filled with cuttings she intended to dry or press. Her parents followed a few steps behind, her mother stopping every so often to admire a blossom, her father muttering about missing country mornings while living in London.
“Well now,” her father said at last, folding his arms and looking about with narrowed eyes, “you have an excellent garden.” His tone tried for gruff indifference, but she recognized the effort he made.
He hated titles and hated having to wear his best coats so regularly.
But he loved his children. He tried, every day, to prove it.
“It is lovely, Emily,” her mother murmured, brushing her fingers over the head of a chamomile plant.
“I had worried you would not find your footing in a new place without us, but this feels like you.” She smiled and adjusted the bonnet she wore.
“Drying flowers and mixing salves again. I am glad you haven’t left your old skills behind. ”
Emily returned the smile, but the corners of it faltered. “It has been comforting,” she admitted, arranging the sprigs in her basket unnecessarily.
Her father grunted. “Good, good. Better than all that nonsense in London, with ladies fluttering about like jeweled pigeons.” He shot a look at her mother. “This place makes me miss the farm. At least cows don’t whisper behind fans.”
“Cows have their own opinions,” her mother said with her usual air of peacefulness. “They are merely less concerned about sharing them.” She nudged Emily’s elbow. “Now show me what you have concocted.”
Emily led them inside to the small stillroom she and Juniper had made out of a kitchen pantry.
They had made it useful, adding more shelves, hooks, and creating a pleasant orderliness that belonged fully to Emily.
Bundles of lavender and mint hung from thin cords, drying in patient rows.
A mortar and pestle sat where she had left them last night.
Small glass jars, neatly labeled in Lyness’s careful hand, glinted in the morning light.
Her mother’s breath caught softly. “Oh, Emily. This is perfect.”
Her father stepped inside with the wariness of a man entering a ribbon shop. He picked up one of the jars, squinting at the label. “Comfrey salve. Hmph. Your mother swore by this when any of you scraped a knee.”
“And it worked every time,” her mother said, taking the jar from him as though he might drop it. “I hoped you would come back to this work someday, my dear. It is good for you. Good for others too.” She inspected the label and her eyebrows raised. “This is beautiful penmanship. Is it yours?”
“No.” Emily’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She busied herself with the basket again, taking out the herbs to arrange them on the narrow table beneath one of the shelves.
After putting the jar down, her mother stepped closer. “You have done well here, Emily. And your letters always sounded so content.” She paused. “But something is troubling you now.”
Emily kept her gaze low. “Nothing is wrong, Mama.”
Her father made a disbelieving sound. “Child, we have raised six children before you. Of course we know when one is chewing on something unpleasant.”
“She does not want to worry us,” her mother said gently, brushing a curl behind Emily’s ear. “But worrying is part of loving, Emily. Tell us why your smile looks borrowed and ill-fitting this morning.”
A breath caught in Emily’s chest. She stared at the drying herbs—her refuge, her familiar work—yet even here, her thoughts were tangled with yesterday’s words. Duty. Honor. Responsibility. Cold little stones settling inside her heart.
She swallowed. “I cannot… I do not want to cause any worry or trouble. Not after London. I thought, foolishly it seems, that if I could be perfect here, if I made no mistakes, you would not have to bear any more humiliation on my account.”
Her father let out a quiet, pained sigh. “Emily. Forget about London and perfection. I care little for Town and less for people who claim what only God can attain.”
Her mother touched her hand, warm and patient. “It sounds as though you are carrying a weight, child. Something is pressing on you.”
Emily’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “I do not want to trouble you. Not again.” But the ache behind her ribs pressed harder, demanding she set it free.
“What nonsense is this? We are your parents,” her father said. “Children are supposed to trouble us, vex us, and worry us. How else will we know we have them?” He stood on the other side of her, a hand on her shoulder. “Come now. Let us hear it.”
Leaning into her father’s shoulder, she looked down at the bottles with Lyness’s neatly written labels. Perhaps it was time to admit defeat.
“I have tried to be everything lady ought bye be,” Emily said quietly.
“Since London—since everything—I have worked at it. To be a good daughter, the one who does not make trouble, who never embarrasses anyone.” She twisted her fingers together, knuckles whitening.
“I have studied every book of etiquette in my possession. I have worked until my head aches to make myself someone you can be proud of, and above all that miserable London gossip.”
Her father’s brow drew down at that, but she didn’t stop.
“And still,” she whispered, “I failed. In London, I did not understand the situation with Mr. Waldegrave, and the rumors grew until a duke stepped in. I came here hoping I could make things better.”
Her mother’s hand pressed lightly on her arm. “Oh, Emily…”
“But now,” Emily said, voice cracking despite her efforts, “this betrothal feels like a consequence Lyness must pay because of one small accident. Because something had to be fixed. Because honor demanded it.” She swallowed hard.
“I keep thinking Lyness only offered for me because he had no choice. That I am, once again, trouble to be managed.”
A soft, distressed breath escaped her mother. “Darling—”
However, her father made a low, irritable sound—one he usually reserved for obstinate livestock or foolish neighbors. “That is utter pigswill,” he said flatly.
Emily’s eyes widened. “Papa?”
“Richard,” his wife gasped out. “We do not use that word anymore. It is uncouth.”
“It is a perfectly good word. But fine. I s’pose the nobility would say nonsense.
Whatever it is, I will not have you speak it, Emily Sterling.
” He fixed her with a fatherly frown as he put his arm around her shoulders.
“The threat of rumors did not cause the engagement. Even I can see that. They were just the excuse the lad needed.”
Her heart thudded painfully as she tilted her head to look up at him. “What do you mean?”
The Earl of Benwaith, her father, looked at her with exasperation and love mixed together in a uniquely paternal way.
“Emily my girl, I have lived long enough to know what a man in love looks like. I have seen it in my sons. Even in your brother Jack. Saw it in myself, long before your mother saw fit to look my way.”
Her mother smiled faintly at that.
“And I saw it yesterday,” her father went on, firm as a hammer strike. “Plain as the nose on your face. Lyness Eastwood is besotted with you.”
Emily stared at him. “Papa—no, he cannot be. We are good friends is all.”
Her father snorted and released his hold on her. “I have been wrong about the price of oats a time or two. But this? I am not wrong about this.” He put his hands on her upper arms and looked down into her eyes. “The boy looks at you as though you are an angel walking on the earth.”
Heat crept up her neck. “He is kind, yes, but kindness does not mean—”
“Emily,” her mother interrupted softly, “your father is not given to fanciful notions. If he says Mr. Eastwood’s affection is real, I would not dismiss it lightly.”
Emily looked between her parents, trying to fit their words into the hollow ache within her heart.
“But no one noticed me,” Emily said quietly.
“Not until after the title, anyway. And even then, I think it was only because of the marriage settlement that horrible lawyer told you to give me. Then everyone in Town found out about it, and Mr. Waldegrave was one of them. Why would Lyness care when no one else ever has? I am five-and-twenty. Most women my age are married or resigned to never be so.”
That declaration brought a strong reaction from both parents as they exchanged glances and looked at her with wide eyes.
“What do you mean, no one noticed you?” her father asked.
“You mean suitors? Before we had the nobility foolishness fall into our laps? Emily, you never seemed interested in that sort of thing. I told a few fellows they were welcome to court you if you wanted it, but none of them had any encouragement for you. They went on their way.”
To Emily’s surprise, her mother was nodding along with him. “I am afraid that is the truth of it, darling. you never showed the interest in courtship and marriage that your sisters did.”
“They were the pretty ones,” she said quietly. “Everyone wanted to court Mary and Anne. They were always going to dances and picnics.”
“Those two could never sit still,” her father grumbled. “They wanted their independence from each other as much as they did from our household. They went after husbands with a single-mindedness that nearly drove your poor mother mad.”
“I was rather exhausted by the time both of them wed,” the countess admitted, a wry smile on her lips that Emily had inherited. “My Emily, I would have done all the same things for you that I did for them, but you seemed so content.”
Her father hesitated, then added in a gruffer tone, “You were happy in the quiet. Or so we thought. You’d wander the fields, help your mother mix her herbs, sit with the neighbors’ little ones.
We believed that was where you wanted to be.
” His voice softened, almost uncertain. “We didn’t mean you to feel neglected, Emily. Not ever.”
Her breath caught.
Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You have always been our steady one. Our gentle one. We cherished that about you. I never thought to ask if there was more you wanted. I am sorry for that, my darling.”
Emily shut her eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of love and misunderstanding, of years spent assuming she had been the forgettable child—useful, dependable, and easy to set aside.
The child not meant to stir up trouble or call attention to herself.
She had pressed herself into that role. To hear they did not mean for such a thing to happen…
she would have to think on it. At that moment, there was too much in her heart to study it closely.
But hearing her father’s admission—he had seen something in Lyness, something tender and unmistakable—shifted her thoughts in that direction.
“Besotted,” she whispered, as if examining the word. “Do you really think so?”
Her raised both his eyebrows at her. “I am quite certain. The lad is in love with you. The only fools in this situation are the ones who won’t speak plain to each other.” He fixed her with a stern look. “You are as much in love with him as he is with you, my girl. Time to tell him.”
Emily pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Her mother drew her gently into a full embrace. “Oh, my darling girl. You do not have to be perfect. You only need to be yourself. That is all anyone who loves you ever truly needs.”