Chapter 1
A knock at the front door of anyone’s house before ten o’clock in the morning rarely boded well for the home’s inhabitants. And in this particular case, it boded abominably for Emmeline Lockhart.
She’d attempted to brace herself for the lengthy intrusion after her father’s unexpected announcement the night before. Likely
he’d waited until the very last moment to apprise his unsuspecting daughters of their fate.
Father, as good-hearted as he was, had a tendency to avoid conflict at all cost. When pressed, he sprung unwelcome information
on people, and then he disappeared into his study or garden or nobody knew where for the aftermath of his revelation. Some
people said that the loss of his dear wife after bringing Alfie, the lone Lockhart heir, into the world ten years ago had
led him to an acute need for peace and tranquility, but in all truth, Father had fled conflict in every possible way well
before Mother died. Over time, though, his tendency had grown almost chronic.
Another sharp knock echoed through the halls, and Emme could practically hear the doorframe flinch. As if everyone else in
the house knew the eventual consequences of opening the door, no one did, prompting another impatient assault on the wood.
Emme sighed. As the eldest daughter and in the absence of a mother’s guidance, the responsibility of dealing with social expectations
inevitably fell to her.
Even this.
Her posture wilted for only a second before she rallied.
She’d been preparing for this fateful confrontation since early morning, alternating between fervent prayers and envisioning
it all as a comical plight for one of her novel characters. It did help to have an outlet for her frustrations.
Fictional disasters for fictional people were, after all, far safer than real-life ones.
Setting aside her spectacles and tucking away the slips of paper bearing her latest scribbles, Emme pushed her small pile
of novels to the desk’s corner, except for one—The Heroine—which she took in hand, should distraction become necessary.
She’d strategically placed her desk in this spot by the window for two reasons: One, it allowed morning light to bathe her
in enough warmth to dampen any chill from the low-lit fires of the night, and two, the location afforded her a view of the
entrance hallway if she twisted just so.
Carter, the long-suffering butler, ambled into view, his pace slower than usual, if that was even possible. The dear man had
appeared ancient when Emme was a child, but now he seemed to have approached near antiquity, though his wits proved rather
alert and his ears even more so, for good or ill.
He cast her a weathered look down the hallway, his jaw set for battle. Poor man. It was moments like this that she was certain
he earned every shilling of his somewhat inflated salary.
Emme stood, novel in hand, and drew in a deep breath before the plunge. Once Carter opened that door, her blissfully quiet
life would be turned on its head—for the next four months, at least.
Another series of heavy knocks ushered in the entrance of Aunt Albina Bridges, rather unaffectionately referred to as Aunt
Bean, whose self-importance rose from the ends of her pearl-tip shoes to the zenith of her long and usually upturned nose.
She and Father failed to resemble each other at all, in looks or comportment. Whereas Father fled discord as a whole, Aunt Bean saw it as her duty to generously find or create crises wherever she went. In this respect, Emme tended more toward her father’s disposition . . . and desire.
Unless in fiction, of course.
“It was quite irksome to remain on the stoop like a beggar for so long, Carter.”
And the sweet greetings whisked down the hall with the same melodic ring as a new violinist.
“Now, Mother,” came a smoother, more amiable voice, one that immediately brightened Emme’s mood. Cousin Thomas. “It is still
early. I would imagine Carter has been occupied with other matters this morning.”
Where Aunt Bean created persistent offense, Thomas smoothed out the edges with wit and voice, a fortunate trait for a clergyman.
“Besides, Carter,” Thomas continued in a mock whisper, which Emme heard well enough from down the hall, “it wasn’t that long.”
Emme’s smile brimmed . . . until she heard the resounding click of Aunt Bean’s cane as it tapped the floor. Closer and closer,
like the march of troops advancing in combat. Each click increased Emme’s pulse toward retreat.
She glanced around the room, hoping for reinforcements. Aster? Alfie? Even Benedict, the spaniel, would prove a happy distraction,
but no, Emme stood alone, left to face the tampering talons of Aunt Bean.
If only Mother were here.
Without a daughter of her own, Aunt Bean relished her role as matchmaker with the fervor of Lady Ruthton’s enthusiasm for
hosting balls—a zeal so boundless that she had single-handedly transformed St. Groves into a pale imitation of Bath. And her
adoring husband spared no expense. They’d even recently built a new hotel, a theater, and even a concert hall.
Her parties last year numbered fifteen!
Fifteen!
Emme’s shoulders sagged yet again from the weight of her social future. Though, to be honest, she conveniently dodged five
of the fifteen for various real and imagined illnesses or situations. After the difficulties of her first season, Father hadn’t
forced the issue.
Six clicks later, Aunt Bean came into view with Thomas at her side. In usual Thomas fashion, he wrestled with a smile, which
countered the disposition of every previous rector in St. Groves. And if Thomas’s youthfulness and temperament didn’t spark
a great deal of interest, his singleness certainly would.
“Good morning, Emme,” Thomas offered before Aunt Bean pounced. “I’m glad to see you are awake and employed already.” His gaze
dropped to her book, one quizzical brow etching upward. “Devotional reading, I assume? To usher in the day?”
Emme tightened her grip on Eaton Stannard Barrett’s entertaining novel and slipped it behind her back. “How could you doubt
it?”
“Of course.” A twinkle surfaced in his dark eyes before he turned to his mother. “Our cousin is a paragon of virtue, is she
not, Mother?”
Not from what the gossips declared, but after almost two years, the tattling tongues of St. Groves had found new victims to
exploit, leaving Emme’s catastrophe well faded into infamy. Her inability to find a match last season may have resurfaced
some murmurings but mostly pity, which likely sparked this very visit.
Aunt Bean heaved a sigh as large as her bosom and studied Emme from the top of her blonde head to the toe of her morning slippers.
“Why is it that you are the only one to greet us this morning? Is everyone else inclined toward laziness?”
Laziness? Emme raised a brow, following Aunt Bean’s survey of the room. Cowardice, perhaps.
“Actually, I do believe everyone else is otherwise engaged, Aunt.” Which was true, even if “engaged” meant Father hiding in the library and Aster out for an extended morning walk. So extended, in fact, that she’d likely made it all the way into St. Groves by now. “Alfie is in lessons.”
“Alfie?” Her cane tapped the floor as the name took agitated flight. “I have no interest in your brother. His future is secure.
It is you and your sister for which the rescue must be made.”
Rescue? Giving Aunt Bean the role of heroine seemed to defy the very definition of the word. At least for those to be “rescued.”
But it was so. Gentlewomen had to be rescued by matrimony, inheritance, or death, for they were not usually given a living
and were certainly not allowed to earn one.
Unless it was secret.
“Of course. It’s just that we weren’t expecting your visit quite so”—Emme almost said “early” but then thought better of it—“soon
after your arrival. How have you found the rectory?”
Thomas opened his mouth to respond, but his mother overrode his attempt. “Better suited than I expected.” Her face softened
a little but not enough to garner much hope toward optimism. “I will not be ashamed to remain for the season. Thomas’s uncle
offered a rectory of no mean salary and situation. What parson do you know with five hundred a year?”
Thomas winced at the blunt declaration of his private matters. True, everyone knew, but the subject of such gossip rarely
wished to hear it dangled about like a prize to be won. Or a horse to be sold.
“Indeed. I have no doubt my youngest son will be the talk of St. Groves in no time.”
He already was, and none of the single ladies of the parish had even laid eyes on him yet. “Single” proved a powerfully magnetizing
word among the Christian and pagan alike, especially when paired with such an income!
Emme raised her brows and smiled at Thomas.
“I’m certain the position will make an excellent match of its own for Cousin Thomas.
” His eyes narrowed in playful parrying as Emme continued.
“I would hazard a guess the church will be particularly full this Sunday of people curious to hear from the new rector, especially the young ladies.”
“Young ladies?” Aunt Bean’s frown expanded her chin to three. “What do we care for other young ladies? We are here to discuss
you, Emmeline.” She stepped closer, narrowing her eyes and attention with such intensity that Emme’s throat tightened. “I
give you my word, I will have you married before I return to Bristol to celebrate my first grandchild’s birth.”
All humor fled Emme’s body, replaced instead by a chill that ran up her spine at the determination emanating from Aunt Bean’s
terrifying expression. Why did the prospect of marriage have to sound more like a threat than a promise? Emme was certain
the original design offered much more joy and happiness than whatever gleamed in Aunt Bean’s pale eyes.
Thomas stepped in before Aunt Bean could elaborate further. “Mother, I know you are the preeminent expert on finding women