Chapter 11 #2
A knock at the door pulled Simon’s attention from the letter he’d just finished, written to secure a date for Mr. Tarleton to fell some of his timber—the first real sign of hope in his situation.
It lightened the tension in his neck, though not enough to fully dissolve the strain of too many problems and not enough solutions.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Patterson entered, clearly a bit discombobulated at having to attend the door as well as the rest of the house when Mr.
Stokes, the butler, was engaged elsewhere.
“You have visitors, my lord.”
“Visitors?” Simon cast a glance at the clock on the wall. Was it noon already? “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“No, sir.” Mrs. Patterson dipped her head, almost apologetic. “It is the new rector, Mr. Bridges.”
The rector? Why on earth would the man come to Ravenscross without invitation?
“And Miss Lockhart, my lord.”
His chest collapsed with a silent exhale. So much for not seeing her often. He pushed the rising interest beneath a shield
of iron will and rose to his feet.
“Please lead them to the drawing room, Mrs. Patterson.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Mrs. Patterson?”
She turned back with pale brows raised in expectation.
“Thank you for taking such good care of this household.”
Her entire expression froze for a moment, save for a few rapid blinks. Then she pressed a fist to her chest and nodded before
closing the door behind her. His words hung in the air, a simple truth that sank into him more than he’d expected. How long
had it been since someone had shown true appreciation for the woman?
Two years ago, he would have scarcely noticed her presence, as most servants were meant to be invisible. But since his world
had turned upside down, his perspective on everything had shifted.
One trial after another, each pointed to his own insufficiency—his weakness, his lack of wisdom, and the wounds of his own emotions.
All those friends who’d once filled his life, aside from Ben, had vanished when his cousin’s death had cast a shadow over the entire Ravenscross reputation.
Slowly, Simon had come to appreciate the dedication of the few who remained, and the humbling of his pride—though brutal—had pulled out the poison of his father’s stubborn blood, bit by bit.
He glanced out the window as sunlight attempted to break through the ever-pervading clouds. Why, he wondered, did the deepest
lessons always come through the harshest trials?
A quiet laugh escaped him. Probably because he was the greatest fool of them all, and only the sharp blade of suffering could
cut away the disease that ran through his family line. He brought his gaze back to the sky.
“Then cut away, for I would not wish to be like my father.”
He sealed the letter to Mr. Tarleton, dropping it on the platter in the hallway on his way to the drawing room. The timber
would provide some financial relief for Ravenscross, but it would take time. Perhaps securing another deal, like offering
a portion of the estate for grazing or timber rights to neighboring farmers, could help as well. But the idea of Emmeline
Lockhart returning to his house after the fiasco two days ago both puzzled and—perhaps—terrified him.
What in the world had brought her back?
They’d courted for only three months, yet he’d learned swiftly that once Emme set her mind on something, it became a matter
of when, not if, she saw it through. Arriving back at his house with the clergyman—of all people—meant she’d brought someone
to support whatever scheme she had in mind.
A tiny sliver of hope tried to resurrect itself, but Simon swiftly quashed it.
He opened the drawing room door and entered, his gaze immediately finding Emme.
It never failed. Even at every ball and gathering, he always sought her first. He noted her clothing, her position, the subtle clues in her demeanor.
And there she stood by the window, sunlight catching the rose hues of her blue gown as if she had stepped directly from a dream into his home.
His breath hitched. Despite it all, she’d found her way beneath his skin, into his bloodstream, coursing through him like
breath and soul. How was he to still this longing? Now that he had held her again, kissed her, breathed in the scent of her?
How?
It would require, at the very least, the amputation of his heart.
And yet, he must. He must silence the heartbeat for her. Disconnect the gravity pulling him to her.
He shifted his attention to Mr. Bridges and nodded. “Welcome to Ravenscross.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Mr. Bridges dipped his head and then sent a glance to Emme. “We hope we are not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Simon replied, though the words were only half-truth. Her presence always unsettled him. “What can I do for
you both?”
“We’ve come bearing gifts and . . . ideas.” Emme stepped forward, a large and laden basket in her arms.
Oh dear, she did have a plan!
“This holds various jams, a ham, and some freshly baked bread, compliments of Thistlecroft.” Her smile bloomed. “And I just
delivered a wonderful selection of fresh eggs to Mrs. Patterson in order to keep Charlotte from becoming . . . inventive again.”
Simon stared at Emme for a full five seconds as the full weight of her words settled. She’d brought a food basket? Like one
might bring to a sick widow? For some reason, he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or . . . amused.
“And I thought, if you’re amenable to it, I could take the girls out on a few excursions over the next weeks.
” She thrust the basket toward him, her smile nearly theatrical in its brightness.
“It would give them something to do outside of Ravenscross, and perhaps they could benefit from a bit of female company?”
Simon’s usually adept grasp of the English language was sorely tested in this moment. Emmeline Lockhart’s words seemed to
fly at him from unexpected directions, leaving him struggling to keep up.
“Emme, you are confusing the poor man.” Thomas stepped forward, deftly rescuing Simon from his turmoil by taking the basket—which
Simon had yet to receive—and setting it neatly beside one of the high-backed chairs. He turned to Simon, his expression steady,
a calm anchor amid the storm of Simon’s scattered thoughts. “Would you mind if we took a seat, Lord Ravenscross? Miss Lockhart
has apprised me of certain matters and believes we may offer some assistance—or, at the very least, guidance—should you wish
it.”
“Rescues usually work better with more hands,” Emme offered, looking a little less confident than she had only a moment before.
Had he only recently said that very same thing to Fia?
“Y-yes.” Simon shook his head to clear it, gesturing to the chairs. “Of course. Please, do sit.”
Simon kept his focus on the rector, though he could feel Emme’s gaze on him. Evidently, her presence made him both nervous
and an imbecile. Not exactly the mental state he needed for this conversation.
“Miss Lockhart is eager to be of service to your family and has, perhaps”—Mr. Bridges sent Emme a look that incurred an exasperated
sigh from her—“moved forward with more zeal than necessary.”
She shot Mr. Bridges a frown, which nearly brought a grin to Simon’s lips. Why was it so tempting to provoke her indignation?
He quickly schooled his features, determined to regain his composure. He needed to marry—quickly, even—if only to avoid further
complications with Emmeline Lockhart.
It was a terrible reason to marry, but there it was.
“Forgive me for my forthrightness, my lord,” Mr. Bridges continued. “I understand these are private matters, and I do not wish to pry, but Miss Lockhart and I have a few very practical solutions for you to consider. If you will allow us.”
“Solutions?” Simon’s voice was flat, though inwardly he bristled. As if he hadn’t racked his brain for every conceivable answer
from every possible angle.
“It is no secret you have found yourself in a difficult financial situation.” Emme’s voice was soft, almost consoling. There
was no pity in her eyes, but compassion?
His body stiffened at the reminder—or perhaps at the unexpected solace he saw in her gaze. “And how do these matters involve
the two of you?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended. Their visit, and especially this line of conversation, was entirely
improper.
Well, perhaps not from a clergyman, but certainly from Miss Lockhart!
There. Referring to her as “Miss Lockhart” rather than “Emme” helped create a distance in his mind. This was Miss Lockhart,
the country girl currently prying into his personal affairs. Not Emme, his former . . .
He refused to finish the thought.
Mr. Bridges, oblivious to Simon’s inner conflict, pressed on. “I can only imagine the weight of responsibilities that have
fallen upon you since inheriting your title. Doubtless, you are exploring ways to address your estate’s financial concerns.”
Simon leaned back in the chair, the space between them now tinged with cool detachment. “I am, but I am still uncertain how
those matters concern the two of you.”
“Of course.” Mr. Bridges’ jaw tightened, a clear sign Simon had struck a nerve. “Have you considered taking on tenant farmers?
I believe your cousin did so during his time, but not . . . near the end?”
“The numbers had dwindled considerably over the last year of his life,” Simon replied. “He wasn’t the most generous of masters.”
“But you’re not him,” Emme quickly interjected.
Simon closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Miss Lockhart. Not Emme.
“It happens there are several families within the parish who could benefit from tenancy,” Mr. Bridges continued, clearing
his throat. “Take Mrs. Dean’s daughter and her new husband, for example. They need work and a place to live. A section of
your fallow land could be farmed, providing produce for Ravenscross, income for you, and a home for them.”
Simon regarded the rector, the suggestion digging uncomfortably into his pride. He had entertained the idea briefly, but larger
ventures had seemed more pressing. Still, with assistance, this could yield a modest, steady income. “You could provide me
the names?”
“Indeed, sir.” Mr. Bridges’ expression relaxed, almost imperceptibly. “Within the week, if you wish.”
Simon’s pride took another hit, but it had become so bruised of late, the sting was less severe. “Thank you both for the suggestion
and your assistance.” His gaze flickered toward Miss Lockhart.
Despite Mr. Bridges’ delivery, the idea had been hers, hadn’t it? She had seen Ravenscross’s struggles firsthand, understood
its needs. And despite having every reason to avoid him, she had come—with baskets, ideas, and jam, of all things. His pride
crashed to smithereens.
“There is another matter.” Mr. Bridges gestured toward Miss Lockhart, who immediately leaned forward in anticipation.
“I’ve written to my former governess, Miss Lane, to inquire if she is looking for employment. She is a fine lady, matronly
in manner, who has . . . personal experience”—she shrugged apologetically—“with girls who may find themselves in more mischief
than usual.”
Simon froze. She must have heard Aunt Agatha’s ultimatum. There was no other explanation for her suggestion. He had not mentioned
the need for a governess to anyone but Ben. What else had she overheard?
“If she responds favorably, shall I arrange for you to correspond or perhaps interview her?” Mr. Bridges interjected smoothly, steering the conversation into more conventional waters. His tactful phrasing underscored an unspoken understanding—Simon couldn’t correspond directly with Emme.
“I would be grateful, thank you.”
Emme’s smile was immediate, bright enough to light her eyes. “Your sisters would benefit greatly from her guidance. And it
would relieve you of the burden of overseeing their education.”
Simon looked down briefly, gesturing toward her with a slight nod. “You’ve . . . put a great deal of thought into this.”
“Well, once the idea occurred to me, I couldn’t rest until I’d thought of potential solutions.”
“A regular hazard of any friendship with Emmeline Lockhart,” Mr. Bridges said, his lips twitching into a smile.
They exchanged a look—a shared understanding—that tightened something in Simon’s chest. How close were they?
Why had Emme asked Mr. Bridges to escort her here today and present this plea? Was it simply because Mr. Bridges, as one of
the clergy, would be more easily accepted into Ravenscross? Or was there something more between them?
Hadn’t Mr. Bridges been going toward the library at the Ruthtons’ where Emme was hiding when Simon had first met him? Heat
seeped from his body. Could they have been meeting in secret?
And hadn’t he observed the rector and Emme dancing together on more than one occasion?
A sharp heat crept up Simon’s neck, his chest tightening further.
“There is one more matter on which I feel I can provide assistance,” Emme said, drawing his attention back to her. Her fingers
were twisted together in her lap, the slightest ink stain visible on one edge of her palm. It was the twisting of her fingers,
though, that truly caught his eye. She only did that when she was nervous.
Extremely nervous.
“You do?” Mr. Bridges looked over at her.
She raised her chin, another warning sign. “I do.” She drew in a breath. “Considering the circumstances in which you find
yourself, and the restricted timeline, I would like to help you find a suitable bride.”