Chapter 3
Simon was back?
Emmeline’s throat squeezed in a breath as she ushered all her strength to maintain a neutral expression. Simon.
Her heart pitched again. Perhaps if she stopped referring to him as Simon, it would help. “Lord Ravenscross” felt suitably
distant—less personal, less capable of conjuring a roguish smile or tender look. She had thought herself well on the path
to conquering her feelings, of moving beyond him, but the mere prospect, after all this time, of seeing him across a ballroom
or theater sent her composure to tatters.
Her fingers pinched around her book to the cramping point.
“I have already encouraged your father to purchase a subscription to the season, particularly to the fancy balls.” Aunt Bean
smiled, or so Emme thought, but Aunt Bean’s smiles never seemed to understand the full intention. “Eighteen this year.”
Eighteen? Emme wrenched her thoughts from striking blue eyes and shattering humiliation to focus on her aunt’s words. Eighteen fancy
balls? She had barely survived the ten she’d attended last year, and that had been when Simon wasn’t even present. The thought
of enduring such a parade of insipid introductions, relentless chatter, and suffocating crowds—this time with Simon likely
among them—was enough to wither her to the floor.
Surely there weren’t even enough eligible men in St. Groves to warrant so many balls.
Perhaps if she managed to offend everyone by the fifth ball, she could graciously bow out of the rest, leaving Aster to secure the next family wedding.
“We will succeed, Emmeline Lockhart, if it is the last thing I do.” Aunt Bean’s penetrating gaze locked onto hers, as if the
sheer force of her will could extract all resistance. And despite the chill running up Emme’s arms at the sight, she realized
she’d just uncovered marvelous inspiration for a new character in her latest novel.
The readers would be duly terrified.
Thomas, bless him, stepped forward as if to intervene in the hypnotic moment. But a noise from behind turned everyone’s attention
toward the hall, where Emme’s father attempted to disappear into his study through the back stair.
“John, is that you?” Aunt Bean’s voice sliced through the air with the precision of an expert arrow, freezing Father mid-step.
Father turned, eyes as wide as a barn owl’s, brown brows quivering upward. He paused, sent a longing look toward his study
door, and then, with a deep breath that straightened his entire body, he turned.
“Bina, you’ve come already?” He failed to add any surprise in his tone.
“Of course I’ve come.” Aunt Bean also failed to notice. “How could I not, given your evident desperation?”
Desperation? Even Emme, whose situation could be charitably described as precarious, found the word overly dramatic, but the drama appeared
to work wonders to encourage a deepening of the wrinkles around Father’s eyes. He blinked behind his spectacles, and Aunt
Bean took that as her cue for clarification.
“We have no time to lose. Emme has already endured two failed seasons, complete with public humiliation at the hands of a
rake, and she is nearly twenty with no prospects in sight.”
If trusting Simon Reeves had been Emme’s great mistake, she had little faith in society’s judgment to steer her toward someone better.
How was she to trust herself in the brutal machinery of the marriage mart again?
Simon had seemed so different—gentle, charming, impossibly dashing.
No one had warned her of his tendency to flirt to the edge of propriety and then drop the woman like a stone—or so that was how it felt as she stood alone in the garden two years before.
And he hadn’t seemed the sort. Not once she’d gotten to know him. Not once he’d become her friend.
“Mother, if I may clarify,” Thomas interjected, stepping to Emme’s side and resting a reassuring hand on her arm. “The rake
in question succeeded only in revealing his own deficiencies, earning Emmeline nothing but sympathy from those who matter.
His true colors came clear in the end.”
“Which is all the more proof of why I am needed.” Aunt Bean sniffed, tapping her cane sharply against the floor. “Sympathy
is cold comfort in these matters. A lady’s reputation is a delicate thing, Emmeline, and even the faintest breath of impropriety
can leave an indelible mark. Society does not forgive indiscretions, no matter how undeserved. I have ample lessons for both
you and your sister on how to catch an appropriate husband.”
Husband catching? Aunt Bean mentioned catching a husband as if it were like catching a cold. If a man required catching, perhaps it was better
to let him escape entirely. Indeed, with the memory of Mr. Reeves—or rather, Lord Ravenscross, as he was now—and the quiet
hope inherent in her little secret, perhaps marriage wasn’t a necessity at all. Couldn’t real life echo the gumption of one
of her fictional heroines?
Could she be . . . brave enough to strive for independence?
Thomas coughed into his hand and then gave a slight dip to his head. “Well, Uncle John, while you and Mother discuss the very
serious sport of husband catching, would you mind if Emme gave me a tour of your garden? It’s been a while since last I saw
it, and I believe it may provide some inspiration for my own improvements at the parsonage.”
The corner of Emme’s lips twitched. She could certainly appreciate this sort of rescue.
Father, well aware of Thomas’s gallant intentions, paused. His shoulders slumped slightly at the prospect of being left alone with Aunt Bean, but with a sigh, he stepped forward with reluctant resolve. “Of course. I am certain the garden will provide ample . . . inspiration.”
With a slight bow, Thomas offered his arm, and Emme walked with him toward the back of the house.
Once they were outdoors, surrounded by sunlight and the whisper of late-summer birdsong, Thomas broke the silence. “I feel
as though I owe you an apology.” His playful tone contrasted the contrition in his words. “If I hadn’t taken this appointment
so near to St. Groves, it wouldn’t have brought Mother—and all her glory—down upon you.”
A laugh bubbled up despite herself, a much-needed release from the tension coiling her stomach. “How could you not take it?
Your uncle’s rectory is a most generous offer, and as a third son, your options were . . . limited.” She shrugged, following
the garden path away from the house toward a gazebo at the edge of a hedgerow. “At least you love the church.”
He gave her a half smile. “I’m obliged to say so after earning a bachelor of divinity in addition to my other degree.”
She squeezed his arm with her hand. “You jest, but underneath all your teasing, I know you are really happy.”
He responded with a good-natured shrug, though his eyes betrayed his contentment. As they rounded a curve in the garden path,
placing them out of view of the house, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a thick envelope. “Speaking of happiness,”
he said, “I thought some additional pin money might benefit you and Aster as you launch into the upcoming season.”
Launch? What a word! But before Emme could reply, Thomas pushed the envelope into her hand. The paper bulged from the contents. “What is this?”
“Money, clearly.” He lowered his voice. “Your earnings.”
“Oh, Thomas!” She pressed the envelope back toward him, glancing around as if the entire household were spying from the windows. “I thought we agreed you’d keep it invested until I was ready to tell Father.”
“It’s been over two years, Emme. Three books. At some point, you must tell him.”
“Must I?” Her grip on the envelope tightened. In reality, how long could she keep this secret from her father?
“Why not? It’s 1813.” His palm came up as if the declaration changed everything. “There aren’t a great many, to be sure, but
more women are writing novels than ever. What about that woman who wrote one of your favorite books? Pride and Prejudice? At least she reveals herself as a lady, even if she doesn’t use her name.”
Emme tilted her chin, staring out at the rolling green hills. “Because anonymity suits my purposes. My pseudonym brings no
scandal, no suspicion. And with the shadow of my failed seasons still looming, the timing couldn’t be worse. Can you imagine
Father dealing with the potential conflict of such information when he’s already shouldering the work of a single parent to
three? And after my first season’s disastrous—”
“Mr. Reeves . . . Lord Ravenscross,” Thomas spat out the correction. “His actions were not your fault and no one of consequence
thinks so.” He steadied his serene eyes on her. “The right man will encourage your pursuits, Emme. He’ll support you—writing
and all.”
Would it were true. Why did she feel as if young women were poised on the edge of a knife and one wrong step easily led to
eternal disaster?
And a well-positioned and respected gentleman supporting a bride who wrote novels? She refrained from rolling her eyes. Not
everyone was as clear sighted or open minded as Thomas Bridges.
They walked on in silence a little longer. “I would help you tell your father if you—”
Her palm raised, stopping his words. “Please, Thomas. Not now. Besides, I think I am better off writing for the joy of the story than considering profit and loss. The less I know, the easier it is to pretend that E.K. Winsome is someone else entirely and solely separate from me, which will serve all of us better for Aunt Bean’s husband . . . catching.”
“Very well. Then I’ll quit my argument for now.” He held her gaze and narrowed his eyes. “For now. But when you are ready,
your accounts and”—he gestured toward himself—“your favorite cousin will be at your service.”
The silence slipped between them as they stepped up to the gazebo to take a seat inside. “I do wonder, Emme, if it might not
do you some good to write a story with less . . . shadows.”
She looked up from the envelope she’d just discreetly tucked into her book. “What do you mean?”