Chapter 7
“To be perfectly honest, Emme, I’m not entirely sure what to make of him.” Thomas rode alongside her, his gelding a striking
golden brown next to her black mare, Portia. “Tortured, perhaps? He’s certainly not the cad I expected.”
Emme frowned and fixed her gaze ahead. “He has a history as a flirt, especially up to two years ago, before . . . before—”
“Meeting you?” Thomas flashed a crooked grin. “Reputations are slippery things, often shaped by the tongues that spread them.”
“How philosophical.” Emme raised a brow, but he was right. How much of Simon’s reputation was based on truth?
“And maturity,” Thomas continued, waving a hand as though to encompass the entire notion. “Or rather, the right connections
can inspire a man to change in many ways.”
“But changefulness can be just as fickle.” Emme sighed, settling the gift basket between her stomach and the pommel of her
saddle. Her riding cane rested within easy reach, but Portia knew the path toward St. Groves—and today the Deans’ house. “What
if his next whim changes him back to a rogue?”
“If he ever was one,” Thomas added. “I suppose that’s something for the next Lady Ravenscross to sort out and address.”
She felt his gaze on her profile, and her cheeks heated.
“Which, after being slighted by him, I can only assume will not be you.” His tone remained light, but she felt the prick of his implications.
“Of course not. I just feel as though something is unfinished between us, and I can’t be settled about it. That’s all.”
“More fodder for your fictional devices then, I’d say.”
She flung him a glare. “Not everything I’ve written in those books is based on my life, Thomas.”
“I should hope not.” His brow rose, a glimmer deepening his eyes. “There are too many intrigues and murders to be based on
any one person’s life, especially a young woman of your situation. If I thought any such inspiration came from your own life,
I should not only pray harder for you but remove your siblings and father from the house at once.”
“You’re hysterical.” She shook her head and guided Portia forward. “But I should tell you, I’ve taken your advice.”
“Very wise. Of which of my many suggestions have you acquiesced?”
“I’m only tiptoeing into the idea, mind you, but I’ve started structuring a story with less Gothic tones and more”—she gestured
toward the countryside—“home.”
“Ah.” His brows rose with sudden interest. “And how does it go?”
“I’ll let you know.” She shrugged. “I’m still trying to find my story within it.”
“It will come, Emme.” He flashed her a grin. “You only need the right inspiration.”
At the crest of the hill, the view of St. Groves unfurled before them in all its glory. She instinctively brought her horse
to a stop. Old buildings of yesteryear intertwined with newer constructions, reflecting the town’s recent resort status. The
Royal Crescent, the Guild Hall, the Pump Room, and, of course, the newly built Ruthton Cross Hospital. The small town of a
decade ago had yielded to industry and tourism, and a little part of Emme grieved the loss.
Yet the influx of excitement and new faces did bring with it many opportunities for observation. And observation, as always, led to stories.
“Are you certain you don’t mind visiting Mrs. Dean in my stead?” Thomas’s question pulled Emme from her thoughts. “Until I
have a conscientious Mrs. Bridges to assist me or become more acquainted with my parishioners, I feel less prepared to meet
some of the needs specific to the fairer sex. And Mrs. Dean was highly distraught on Sunday.”
Emme’s attention shifted immediately to the small farm just outside of town, where Mrs. Georgia Dean lived. A widow, Mrs.
Dean had been left a comfortable income by her late husband that would support her and her two daughters for the rest of her
life. After her death, the land would pass to a distant cousin. However, the dear woman, though kindhearted, was known for
her dramatic responses to the slightest provocation.
As well as her excellent hats and murderous hen.
Quite the combination of attributes, but country life afforded all sorts.
Emme knew poor Thomas had likely been flummoxed during his first visit, though he certainly hadn’t left without a wealth of
biscuits, lavish compliments, and a full recounting of Mrs. Dean’s life.
“I don’t mind at all.” Emme had been preparing herself all morning for the extensive visit. “Most of the time her distress
is easily remedied with a visit and some homemade strawberry jam.” Emme patted the basket. “Strawberries are her weakness,
so you’ll know for future reference.”
“Well, Mrs. Dean and I are sure to get along just fine, for strawberries are my weakness too.”
“Either you’ll get along famously or be in competition—especially when we visit Mr. Sutherland’s garden party. His family’s
strawberry beds are quite the legend.”
Thomas’s smile stretched wider, inspiring her own.
Emme wasn’t closely acquainted with many men—her circles were typically composed of women—but Thomas set an excellent example of what a good man should be.
Not that she wanted a rogue of a man, but knowing her own faults, measuring up to someone like Thomas in marriage seemed rather impossible.
If her future husband was a little bad, at least the expectations as a wife would feel more manageable. “Where are you off
to anyway?”
“The Lennoxes.” He gave his brows a triumphant wiggle. “I’ve been invited to tea.”
And the couple were certain to lavish Thomas with praise, food, and the exquisite comfort of their new townhome. “How you
must suffer for your profession.”
“To the heart.” He pressed a palm to his chest, then adjusted it to his stomach with a feigned thoughtful expression. “Or . . .
to the gut?”
Emme laughed. “Don’t become too arrogant about an invitation, Reverend Bridges. The Lennoxes have three daughters who are
in desperate need of husbands.”
Leaving Thomas with a pained look, she tossed a grin over her shoulder and guided Portia toward the path outside of town as
Thomas took the direction into St. Groves.
Emme had never dared ride horseback too near town without a chaperone, but visiting the Deans’ farm kept her near enough to
home not to seem too improper.
Just a little.
An acceptable little.
This was her home, after all. The world she’d known all her life—the hillsides, the pastures, the forests, the dales. All
of it fit her as comfortably as her favorite gloves. And thanks to her mother’s reputation and her father’s generosity, she
was known by most every family in St. Groves, and she knew them in return. Thomas’s decision to ask for her help was not only
a compliment but strategic.
She knew this world.
And loved it.
But there were times when she longed for a bit more adventure, beyond the fictional realms she created. Since her mother’s
death, her father rarely traveled to London more than once a year and even less to the coast, much to Emme and Aster’s chagrin.
She didn’t care to live near the coast, but visiting always brought a sense of grandeur, calm, and unexpected creativity.
Perhaps she should encourage Father to take another trip soon—if nothing else, to curb her curiosity about a certain viscount.
Her hurt urged her to flee.
Her curiosity pushed her toward discovering the truth.
And her heart? She wasn’t quite certain.
At all.
Except that discovering the truth might help her find some sort of closure to whatever had happened between the man she’d,
well, come to admire, and the one who had left her in the garden.
As Emme approached the Deans’ farm, she followed the lane between a copse of trees. The house, with its regal red brick and
stone quoins, stood proudly with a hipped roof, maintaining its pristine appearance despite Mr. Dean’s passing three years
prior. Apparently, the patriarch had planned so well for his family of ladies that both the gardener and the steward remained
on the books until Mrs. Dean’s death or her move to live with one of her daughters.
The eldest had married two years ago and now lived twenty miles to the east, but the youngest, Anna, had made her debut last
season. Emme frowned as she surveyed the windows of the house. As a matter of fact, Emme hadn’t seen Anna at any of the balls
this season, and as another young lady who ended last season without a proposal, she had expected the girl to try again.
Had she been ill? Visiting her sister?
Emme deposited Portia in the nearby stables with Mr. Marks, the Deans’ kindly groom, and walked to the front door. The maid announced her presence, and immediately Emme was taken into the arms and conversation of the petite Mrs. Dean.
“Oh, but I didn’t hear your carriage, or I would have greeted you myself.”
Emme grinned and pulled away from the woman’s embrace. “I came on horseback, so no wonder you didn’t hear my approach.”
“Horseback?” The woman’s eyes widened to almost the same roundness as her mouth. “Dear girl, do you think it’s safe to travel
alone and on horseback, no less? I’m surprised your father allowed it.”
“It’s scarcely two miles between Thistlecroft and here—hardly a distance to note. Besides, the air is refreshing, and days
like this were meant for riding.”
“But alone?” Mrs. Dean tsked, her capped head shaking with disapproval. “Two miles or twenty, it’s enough for a highwayman
or thief to make trouble.” She sighed, her disapproving tone giving way to a warm smile. “But I am glad to see you—and to
find you so delightfully unmaimed.”
Unmaimed? Emme stifled a chuckle. Mrs. Dean always did have a talent for dramatic turns of phrase.
The woman led her to a cozy sitting room with wide windows overlooking the back garden. Rolling hills dotted with wildflowers
stretched toward the horizon, the Deans’ stables and barn nestled comfortably in the scene.
“I am so very glad you’ve come.” Mrs. Dean gestured for Emme to sit at the small table by the window. “You always seem to
arrive precisely when my heart needs you most.”