Chapter 13 #2
his typical smile restored from his previous agitation with her. She loved that about him. He rarely held grudges. It was
an excellent characteristic for a clergyman.
“How providential to encounter you this morning, Miss Lockhart,” he teased. “I had imagined you at home, preparing for your
grand strawberry-picking adventure.”
Her smile flared. “Lord Ravenscross’s carriage isn’t meant to collect me for a few hours yet, so I thought I’d indulge in
a little shopping beforehand.”
“Making wise use of the spoils of your success, no doubt?” He fell into step beside her, his dark hat casting a shadow over
his fair hair.
“There’s a certain satisfaction in making purchases with my own money, I must say.” She couldn’t repress her smile. It brimmed
to the point of pinching her cheeks. “Not something bestowed upon me as an inheritance, but wholly mine.”
“And there’s much more where that came from, cousin-dearest. You are on your way to becoming an independent woman, should you wish it.”
She stumbled slightly, the words jarring her. Independent? Such a notion required substantial resources. She had dreamed of
it in some distant, uncertain future, but surely not yet. “How . . . how much do I have?”
“Ah, so you do wish to know,” he said, his eyes gleaming. For nearly a year, she’d refused to let him tell her, preferring to imagine the
modest profits of her books without confronting specifics. It felt less humbling.
“I financed it as I advised, and it has been an excellent investment.” His grin crooked. “You currently have over three thousand
pounds in the funds.”
Emme stopped walking altogether. “Three thousand pounds?”
“In the funds, yes.” There was no mistaking the pride in his eyes. She almost hugged him there on the street.
“That’s over one hundred fifty per annum in income, and the principal continues to grow. It’s not enough to live as you are
accustomed, but it is certainly a handsome sum.”
Three thousand pounds? What on earth had Thomas done with those investments? Her mind reeled. One hundred fifty pounds a year
might not rival her current lifestyle, but it was hers. Hers alone. With careful economizing, she could live on it—and on
her own terms.
“And since you haven’t taken the interest as income,” he added, “I’ve reinvested it to increase your holdings. You should
be proud, Emme.”
“Proud?” she repeated, a laugh bursting from her lips. “I suppose I am.” She pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to take it
all in. “It’s remarkable. This brings my little stories to life in a way I never imagined, more so even than holding the first
bound copy in my hands. And yet . . .” She shook her head. “I cannot share this with anyone but you.”
“Which is why I bring my highest enthusiasm.”
That something she had chosen to do for the sheer delight of it could yield such an outcome was extraordinary. Of course the
income depended upon her continued writing, but for the first time, her future didn’t seem quite so dim. If she didn’t marry,
she had a real prospect of independence.
On her own.
Which meant she had greater freedom to marry for love instead of desperation or expectation. “How ironic,” Emme mused. “That
this success, which should be a source of pride, could very well ruin my family’s reputation. What if it jeopardizes Aster’s
chances for a suitable marriage? And my father—imagine his reaction to learning that his eldest daughter not only earns a
living but does so by writing Gothic romances! He can scarcely endure the contents of the scandal sheets most days.”
“Times are changing,” Thomas said gently. “There are more women—even among the gentry—who are finding their way behind a pen.
Perhaps, in time, you won’t need to remain a clandestine authoress.”
She offered him a skeptical look but didn’t argue.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope. “But the reason I caught you this morning . . .” He offered her
the envelope. “From Danbury and Sons, sending their own praise, I believe.”
She took the envelope with a smile, the flush of pleasure warming her cheeks, and had just opened her mouth to thank Thomas
when a third party entered their conversation.
“Good morning to you both.” Miss Selena Hemston’s voice was as sweet as honey, but there was no sweetness in her eyes.
She stepped forward in an exquisitely tailored burgundy walking suit, the fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Her cream spencer
jacket, embroidered with burgundy threads up the sleeves, marked her as one of the wealthiest unmarried women in St. Groves.
The ensemble was designed for one purpose: to be noticed.
Especially when Emme, in contrast, wore a simple muslin dress and her two-year-old broad-collared pelisse coat. It was a lovely shade of green, Aster had insisted, but even the most charitable would never mistake it for the height of fashion.
“Is it not a lovely day for a stroll in town?” Miss Hemston inquired, as if she hadn’t already decided the answer for herself.
Emme, ever careful not to judge too hastily, nonetheless knew Miss Hemston all too well. They had known each other for years,
but not as friends. No, their acquaintance was forged in the social circles of St. Groves—always at a polite distance, as
dictated by their differing stations.
“An excellent one, indeed,” Thomas agreed, bowing slightly. “Perfect for a morning stroll.”
“And intimate conversation, it would appear.” Her dark gaze shifted between Emme and Thomas, a serpentine glimmer shining
in their depths.
“Pardon?” A warning knot coiled in Emme’s stomach. Miss Hemston had never been one for idle chat with those she deemed beneath
her.
“Do not look so surprised, Miss Lockhart,” Selena cooed, her lips curling into something like a smile, though there was little
warmth in it. “I couldn’t help but notice how enraptured Miss Lockhart was by your conversation, Mr. Bridges. And exchanging
letters? How mysterious. I believe I even overheard the word clandestine?”
Emme’s blood ran cold. The impertinence of the woman knew no bounds. Any person of respectability would know better than to
eavesdrop on an unsuspecting conversation. She sighed inwardly, the memory of her own recent eavesdropping experience still
fresh.
Why had neither she nor Thomas considered the risks of conversing in public at this hour? Midmorning in St. Groves was prime
gossip time, when the eyes and ears of the town were most alert to any new “information.”
Emme glanced at Thomas, who, ever the diplomat, was already smoothing over the situation with a charming smile.
“I do feel as though every personal visit must seem rather clandestine in my new role as rector of Lemmingston,” he said smoothly, but sent Emme a knowing glance. No, Thomas was not fooled by
Miss Hemston’s charm. “I am often required to act on others’ schedules, rather than my own, as you can imagine.”
“So you write secret letters to Miss Lockhart, is it?” The sauciness in Miss Hemston’s tone stiffened Emme’s spine for a rebuttal,
but Thomas took control.
“Of course not.” He chuckled. “A mutual acquaintance of ours, whom I happened to encounter in London last week, asked me to
deliver a letter to my dear cousin. I was simply discharging my duties.”
“None of my cousins have ever inspired such affection in me as I witnessed between the two of you.” Her gazes switched between
them, one slim brow slowing rising northward. “Incredibly warm . . . loving.”
“Then I’m sad for you, Miss Hemston. It is a remarkable privilege to find friendship and encouragement in one’s cousins.”
Emme took Thomas’s controlled lead. “And I might add that if you wish to benefit from Mr. Bridges’ encouragement, he excels
in both wit and words, which are often on display in his sermons. Should you wish to observe them in a more public setting,
rather than through the lens of an overheard and private conversation.”
The slight downturn of Miss Hemston’s lips was the only indication that she had caught the reproof.
“I believe you’re right, Miss Lockhart. I’ve neglected a proper study of your cousin.” She bit into the word. “Especially if he brings . . . intrigue along with him.” She waved a gloved hand toward the buildings
nearby. “In such a quaint town as this, one is always in search of occupation.”
And with that, she dipped her chin with a coy smile that left Emme’s face cool, then sauntered away.
“I’m sorry for my timing.” Thomas stepped up beside Emme once Miss Hemston retreated. “I should have been more tactful in my choice of when and where to speak with you.”
“Do not worry yourself, Thomas.” Miss Hemston disappeared around the side of Moss’s Apothecary Shop. “I daresay Miss Hemston
has little need or desire to bother herself with two people so beneath her.”
“Hmm . . .” His response pulled her attention. “I’ve heard enough about Miss Hemston to not underestimate her desire for information
or need for importance. Those who are seeking attention will find ways to obtain it.” He held Emme’s gaze. “There are some
people in life who are merely waiting to be baited to become an adversary. Don’t underestimate her.”