Chapter 10 #2
“A . . . frog.” Mrs. Thornbury pressed a hand to her forehead. “This household is worse than I imagined. Completely ungoverned.” Her sharp gaze skewered Emme. “I suppose you are encouraging this chaos with your rustic manners, allowing children to run amok?”
Heat flared up Emme’s spine, and she straightened her shoulders. “Firstly, Mrs. Thornbury, I am not the children’s guardian,
so their behavior is hardly a reflection on me.”
The woman’s brows arched in sudden unison.
“Secondly,” Emme continued, refusing to lower her gaze from the woman, “I am the daughter of a gentleman—albeit a country
gentleman—and in my opinion, such roots are no discredit. Country manners have produced many well-bred, practical, and compassionate
individuals in the world.”
If Mrs. Thornbury’s brows could climb higher, they certainly tried.
“And lastly,” Emme concluded, barely hanging on to her smile, “you do not know me well enough to judge my manners. I may lack
expertise in managing frogs indoors, but I am well versed in caring for children, having raised my siblings after my mother’s
passing. A little lightheartedness and imagination”—she gestured toward Fia’s wriggling feet—“frogs included, are healthy
for any child. Life will force them into adulthood soon enough.” Her gaze softened as it flicked to Charlotte. “If it hasn’t
already.”
Mrs. Thornbury’s sharp scrutiny shifted to Charlotte and back to Emme. The silence was punctuated only by Fia’s muffled struggle
with the fugitive frog.
“We met on several occasions a few years ago, did we not?” Mrs. Thornbury’s head tilted in sudden recollection. “Your father
is . . .”
“John Lockhart,” Emme supplied, caught off guard.
“Indeed.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as if rifling through an index of Lockharts.
“I believe you may have been better acquainted with my mother, Eleanor Lockhart.”
“I do remember her, yes.” A fleeting softness graced Mrs. Thornbury’s features. “She was well known for her grace and poise.”
As if pointedly remarking—with Emme chasing a frog through the house in a borrowed gown—that she did not inherit those attributes.
“Yes, and her ready humor,” Emme added, just to feel better about herself. “But perhaps you would have known my father’s sister.”
She hesitated, knowing the peril of introducing Aunt Bean’s name into any respectable conversation. “Mrs. Albina Bridges?”
Mrs. Thornbury’s gaze sharpened. “We studied together. She was always quite . . . ambitious.”
It was Emme’s turn to noncommittally respond: “Indeed.”
Mrs. Thornbury’s appraisal turned more pointed. “I recall you being very efficient at croquet.”
The remark threw Emme entirely off course. Two years ago?
“At the Conways’ garden party?” She blinked, unraveling her wariness over this conversational shift. “You must mean my sister,
Aster. She’s the more adept player. I’m the one who nearly knocked Miss Hemston’s hat clean off.”
A twitch betrayed the corner of Mrs. Thornbury’s lips. “Exactly.”
What?
“And you had your cap set at my nephew at the time, I believe.”
Oh, Mrs. Thornbury had led Emme into this discourse like a mouse to a trap. If she hadn’t felt so woolly-headed about it all,
she may have taken note for her next matriarchal character. Mrs. Thornbury was positively resplendent.
“Si—” Emme swallowed. “Lord Ravenscross and I did become acquainted then, yes.”
The twitch at the woman’s lips took a more prominent stretch upward. She’d caught her mouse, and Emme wrestled through myriad
answers for possible questions to derail any further inquiry.
“Blast!” Fia’s exclamation burst from beneath the bed, echoing Emme’s internal sentiments all too perfectly.
“Women of your rank often pursue titled men, so your efforts to secure an advantage are hardly surprising,” Mrs. Thornbury mused, stepping closer. “What is surprising is that I expected you to be more levelheaded and conscientious than . . . grasping.”
Was there a compliment buried in that quagmire? Emme stared back, refusing to kowtow. “I am not seeking Lord Ravenscross’s
title, Mrs. Thornbury.”
“No?” She rounded Emme like a cat on the hunt. “You’ve come to save him then?”
The barb struck as intended, though Emme refused to flinch. Everyone in St. Groves knew the Lockhart family’s modest means.
“I should hope I have the good sense to know my dowry could not accomplish that, but the good heart to wish him well in his
efforts to rescue his home and family.” Her smile tightened as she added, “Do not mistake me for a grasping debutante in search
of a title.”
“Then why sully your reputation—and his—by arriving at Ravenscross unescorted? Only desperate women stoop to such tactics
to ensnare a suitor.”
Emme’s jaw slackened at the accusation. “I am neither desperate nor audacious enough to throw myself at Lord Ravenscross.”
“Oh?” One brow arched northward. “You genuinely like him enough to risk your reputation?” Her frown deepened with warning.
“If you truly wished to help him, you’d employ methods less . . . scandalous.”
“I had no intention of risking either his reputation or mine. I was merely visiting a widow in the community when I—” Emme
caught sight of Charlotte’s wide-eyed alarm. “I noticed Miss Charlotte there, unescorted. Naturally, I brought her home.”
The line between truth and evasion was perilously thin.
And it was still true. In fact, Emme watched Charlotte rather closely all the way to Ravenscross.
Mrs. Thornbury’s attention shifted to Charlotte, her gaze narrowing. “Saw her home, did you? And, pray tell, what was my niece doing at this widow’s house?”
Charlotte’s eyes grew impossibly wider, her lips parting but no sound escaping.
“She was . . . seeing to Mrs. Dean’s chickens,” Emme offered quickly.
“Seeing to Mrs. Dean’s chickens?” Mrs. Thornbury repeated, another twitch pinching up one edge of her lips.
“Blast!” came Fia’s triumphant cry from under the bed as she emerged, her hands clasped tightly around the wriggling renegade
frog. “Look, Aunt Aggie, I caught him! He’s here to meet you.”
The woman’s face softened enough to reduce her age by a decade. “Darling child, what have you been rolling in to have mud
from boots to hair ribbons?”
“The garden is her favorite place,” Charlotte said, voicing her first words since walking into the room. “It’s where she and
Mother passed the mornings.”
Emme pressed a hand to her chest, suppressing the ache the words stirred. Oh, how well she understood the longing to revisit
places where memories of a mother lingered, trying to feel her near in some way.
“Yes, well, Sophia could do with a bath,” Mrs. Thornbury announced.
“And I have already overstayed my unexpected visit.” Emme dipped her head politely and began edging toward the door. “It was
a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Thornbury.” Her gaze landed on Charlotte, offering her the faintest smile of reassurance.
“I believe Simon has already called for the carriage to take you home.” Mrs. Thornbury nodded, the steel from her earlier
gaze momentarily absent.
Emme dipped her head again in acknowledgment and left the room. As she turned into the hallway, she caught sight of the young boy she’d seen earlier with Simon. William? She smiled gently at him, but he quickly looked away, retreating into the shadows of the corridor.
Despite the faded carpets and vacant walls where the outline of paintings once hung, the house retained grandeur and beauty.
But the wounds and fear that must run rife within the walls? Children mourning both father and mother, a new viscount grappling
with the burden of salvaging a title and estate, and an enigmatic aunt dispensing ultimatums?
Someone needed to help all of them.
Emme had barely reached the bottom of the stairs when Simon approached, freshly dressed, though the damp curl of his hair
betrayed a recent swim. Her smile threatened again. Her hurt had lost some of its sting in light of his burdens—his forced
choices that had shaped him.
“I’ve readied the carriage for you.” His gaze flicked to hers as he gestured toward the front door. “And your mare—”
“Portia?”
His lips curved faintly, the smallest concession to humor. “Shakespeare?”
Emme shrugged, watching how he fought the smile. “I have a fondness for intelligent and lively heroines, my lord.”
His gaze steadied in hers. “As do I . . .” His voice faltered and he looked away, clearing his throat as he gestured once
more toward the door. “Your mare is harnessed to the carriage. She will see you home, along with your belongings.”
Her heart pinched at the wealth of words left unsaid. Oh, the weight he now carried!
Simon Reeves had made the right choice.
His family. His duty.
All those bitter thoughts she’d nursed against him unraveled in the face of his burdens. He was, in truth, the man she had believed him to be—the man she had loved.
And she had to let him go. To honor his decision.
“Thank you.” She stepped toward the door as he opened it for her.
He fell into step beside her, maintaining the careful distance required by propriety, pausing at the carriage to extend his
hand to assist her. Emme hesitated. She had left her gloves with the rest of her soiled clothing. Still, there was no avoiding
it. With a slight pause, she placed her bare hand in his.
The warmth of his touch jolted through her, the sensation stirring memories she had worked so hard to suppress. He had held
her hand before. Touched her cheek. Drawn her close in an embrace that had once seemed unshakable. Her gaze flickered to his,
and the intensity in his eyes told her he felt it too.
And then she released him, withdrawing her hand with quiet finality.
The carriage lurched forward, carrying her away from Ravenscross—and from the man who had claimed her heart and broken it
in equal measure.
The man she could never have.
Simon stared into the fire, Aunt Agatha’s ultimatum still turning over in his mind. It felt as though the embers mirrored