Chapter 14 #2
Charlotte’s smile brimmed even wider, and more quickly. A very good sign. “It does seem to be working. Aunt Aggie rarely speaks
so freely of her past. Your sister must be rather charming.”
“Charming,” Emme agreed, doing nothing to hide the humor in her voice. “And entirely shameless in her curiosity. Aster has
always had a knack for asking questions no one else would dare.” She turned back to her occupation. “But I am fond of strawberries
and do not think one can have too many.” She pinched the green off the top of one and popped it in her mouth. “They are my
favorite fruit.”
Charlotte’s smile fell as she turned back to her work. “My mother and older sister shared a fondness for strawberries. We
used to grow our own.”
Emme hesitated, letting the silence linger, unsure if the girl would say more. There was no telling what the Reeves children
had witnessed or endured in the months after their father’s death, followed so swiftly by their mother’s. Simon’s insistence
on discretion had succeeded almost too well, leaving space for all manner of rumors.
“Do you have any strawberry patches now?” Emme prodded gently.
Charlotte picked another few strawberries, deliberately keeping her gaze averted. “We used to have them, but . . . but . . .”
The girl seemed to measure Emme and then returned to the strawberry plant. “Not since Mother.”
The loss squeezed from the girl’s words. Emme kept her eyes on the fruit she was gathering, appearing absorbed in the task.
Charlotte, she suspected, would not welcome pity or undue attention. “Perhaps you could plant a new patch in her honor?”
The girl’s gaze came up. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Well,” Emme replied lightly, “I happen to know a thing or two about it. My mother and I planted strawberries at Thistlecroft
when I was a little younger than you. With the weather being as it is, there’s still time to plant for next spring. If you’d
like some guidance, of course.”
Charlotte didn’t respond immediately, but Emme could feel the girl’s focus shift toward her, even as she continued gathering
fruit. The silence felt familiar—Emme had a younger sister, after all—and she braced herself for the inevitable question.
“Why are you helping us?”
“Why am I helping you?” Emme returned her attention to the fruit she plucked from the current bush, sifting through a suitable
answer in her mind. “I should hope I would offer Christian charity to any of my acquaintances who found themselves in need.”
“But I don’t know of anyone who has gone to such lengths for us. Not even Aunt Aggie would offer to find us a governess, and
you not only provided one but brought us on this outing with you today.”
The little girl was too astute for her own good, which also led Emme to truly examine her own motives.
Was it solely Christian charity? There was, of course, her lingering affection for Simon, but there was more to it.
The shared ache of knowing what it was to lose a mother at an impressionable age, perhaps?
“Must there be any reason beyond kindness?”
Emme should have known better than to further this subject of conversation, because Charlotte, after only a moment’s hesitation,
asked, “Because you’re in love with my brother?”
The question landed with all the bluntness of youth, and Emme’s breath caught. Denying the truth outright would feel dishonest,
but admitting too much was unthinkable. She drew a steadying breath and met Charlotte’s gaze with equal frankness. “I do admire
your brother greatly—for his resilience, for all he has done to see your family through difficult times. Perhaps that admiration
inspires my efforts to help.” She hesitated, then added, “But I also understand the ache of losing one’s mother, and at a
similar age to yours.”
Charlotte blinked, and Emme returned her attention to the berries, fearing her confidence might waver. “Every girl benefits
from the kindness of someone who understands—someone to, well, commiserate with at times.” She threw the girl a smile.
“Is that why you didn’t tell Aunt Aggie I’d stolen those chickens?”
Emme’s body relaxed at the humor lighting the girl’s eyes. “Having been a young girl who had her fair share of mischief, I
felt it better to encourage a camaraderie than a rivalry.”
Charlotte’s own smile flared, a mischievous twinkle in those eyes. “It was very good of you.” Then she turned back to her
strawberry bush, adding in almost a whisper. “But Aunt Aggie already knew about the chickens.”
Emme’s laughter bubbled up, and with it, her resolve to continue helping the Reeves children. Simon, as a romantic prospect,
was lost to her. But doing a good turn for a man she so highly regarded and his siblings she was beginning to care for? That,
at least, remained within her power.
“I should like very much for you to teach me how to plant strawberries,” Charlotte announced, a little challenge in her look.
Ah, she didn’t believe Emme’s request was in earnest? Well, Emme saw the request for what it was. More than just mere curiosity—it
was an olive branch. Perhaps even a plea for the companionship and guidance of an elder sister.
“I have some seeds at the ready.” Emme covered Charlotte’s hand with a gentle squeeze. The girl’s smile flared, bright and
unguarded. “Speak to your brother and see if he might spare you on Saturday afternoon.”
Charlotte’s expression shifted—wide-eyed surprise, as though the touch had been both unexpected and welcome—and then, a look
of . . . longing?
Oh, dear child.
How long had it been since the girl felt such affection? Such care?
Emme turned back to her work just to compose herself.
The afternoon sped forward with continued conversations of lighter topics. Alfie and Fia gathered enough insects to colonize
the back garden, and Aster’s guileless interest even encouraged Mrs. Thornbury to laugh on two occasions.
Overall, Emme would call the outing a complete success.
When the time came to leave, Emme was surprised to find Simon himself, along with his driver, at the helm of the carriage.
For a journey requiring six passengers, the arrangement should have been tedious at best. But with three of the travelers being children, they all fit snugly yet comfortably, and the short drive to Thistlecroft passed in pleasant company.
Fia praised Alfie and his knowledge of insects, while Aster launched into an impressively thorough explanation of Egyptian pyramids.
Mrs. Thornbury added her own sly remark about visiting Egypt before Napoleon’s campaign, prompting an avalanche of questions and admiration that carried them all the way to Thistlecroft.
It truly had been a good afternoon, on all accounts.
Simon helped Aster from the carriage and then offered his hand to Emme. She shouldn’t have hesitated to take it, but he caught
her faltering and raised his gaze to search her face. The last time he’d touched her hand to assist her from a carriage, she’d
felt the connection from their fingers to her toes, and the reminder of not having him for her own only made such touches
more difficult.
Ridiculously difficult, in fact.
Summoning a smile, she placed her gloved hand in his, acutely aware of the warmth of his fingers as they closed around hers.
When her feet touched the ground, she managed a steady breath and a polite nod of thanks, quite proud of herself for such
masterful composure.
“I trust Will enjoyed his time with you while we were away?” Emme asked, slipping her hand from his and strolling toward the
house.
“He did, though I’ve promised him his share of strawberries once the baskets arrive at Ravenscross,” Simon replied, falling
into step beside her.
“He should be quite satisfied then, as we picked three baskets.” Emme grinned up at him, only to falter as she caught the
tender expression in his eyes.
Oh, why couldn’t he be a very unlikable rogue? It would make things so much easier.
Simon looked away first, clasping his hands behind his back as their pace slowed. “Thank you for providing this diversion
for my sisters.”
The low timbre of his gratitude sent warmth rising up her neck, and she suddenly understood why fans were such an indispensable accessory in courtship, especially with voices like his.
“It was truly my pleasure. And you should hear from Mrs. Lane within the next few days. She seems most eager to learn more about the position.”
“I look forward to meeting her. With your recommendation, I daresay she’ll be more than suitable.”
“All that remains, then, is finding a suitable bride,” Emme said lightly, tilting her head with exaggerated cheer. “Miss Clayton
is an excellent option, my lord.”
If looks could render a woman breathless, his certainly did. His gaze held hers for a moment too long, the humor fading into
something . . . far too intimate. So intimate, in fact, that her breathing stalled altogether.
He cleared his throat and gestured with his chin in the direction toward town. “To that end, I plan to attend the theater
tomorrow evening.”
Why did being in Simon’s presence or thinking about him lead to a war of emotions? She blamed that covert kiss on the balcony.
And his voice.
And likely those devastating eyes of his.
So she rallied her humor to the battle. “Do you?”
Unfortunately, if the glimmer in his eyes gave any warning, he rallied his humor as well. “On the recommendation of . . .
a friend.”
Her throat tightened, and her reply came out strangled. “Indeed. And are you taking someone?”
“I am,” he answered, grin crooked but faintly pained. “On that same friend’s advice.”
And in that moment, Emme recognized that his struggle matched her own. The conflict between doing what one wanted versus what
one must. What would he choose if he had the freedom to do so? Would it still be her? After all this time?
“That friend wants to see you happy, Lord Ravenscross.”
His brow tightened and he lowered his head. “I am grateful for such a friend.”
She looked away, though her steps continued to grow slower the closer she came to the front door of her house. It was as if her body wanted to hold on to as many of these moments with him as possible because soon they’d be over.
He’d be married.
And any such connection with him would be gone.
“I understand they’re performing He’s Much to Blame,” she offered, pausing at the front steps. “It might even earn a laugh from you, Lord Ravenscross. That could do your heart
some good.”
“Hmm.” He turned as if to retreat but hesitated, his gaze finding hers again, this time with enough mischief dancing in those
eyes that it mustered her wits to the ready. “I am curious about something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think a shooting jacket is the most becoming style for a gentleman?”
Clearly, her wits were not ready. “What?”
He shook his head with mock gravity. “I suppose any man’s jacket might become irresistible, provided it’s offered in the rain
after a fall.”
Her laughter shook loose as his meaning became clear. “You’re reading Sense and Sensibility?”
“You challenged me. How could I refuse?”
Taking a woman’s book recommendation to heart might be one of the most romantic things in all the world. Oh, why did she have
to be so poor? “And what do you think so far?”
He glanced toward the carriage, lowering his voice. “The wit is sharp, and the characters are finely drawn. But do women truly
think in terms of manly beauty and gallantry?” His attention fastened on her with such intensity, her wits might have flown
right out of her ears. “Do you?”
She swallowed, ushering back some sense for the sake of all women. “Since it was written by a woman, I think you already know
the answer.”
His humor faded into something more searching. “And is that what you thought of me?”
The question struck too close to her heart. Her mind went completely blank. With his dark hair waving back from his impressive
forehead, the structure of his jaw and cheeks almost like someone carved them from marble, and eyes so dark blue that one
wished to peer a little closer to see if the shade wavered into other hues, it was difficult to think of him as anything except
arrestingly handsome. But despite her current insanity—which she blamed entirely on him—she’d learned a great deal about governing
her own emotions. Learned that hopes did not necessarily lead to realizations.
And those eyes weren’t meant for her adoration.
Schooling her features, she took a measured step back. “Why indulge your self-importance with such a reply? A man’s actions—not
his appearance—prove his true worth, don’t you think?”
He released a pulse of air as if her words struck deeper than she’d intended. What had she said? And then realized he may
perceive them in light of their failed courtship, and she quickly added, “And yours are commendable—your hard work, your sacrifices
for your family. I have every faith you’ll find happiness, Simon.”
She shouldn’t have addressed him so familiarly, but the name fell much too easily from her lips. However, the comment did
not resurrect the glint in his eyes. He searched her face for a span of time much longer than appropriate, shallowing her
breath with each prolonged second.
And she reminded herself.
One did not always get what one wanted.
Parents died.
Finances diminished.
Loving someone didn’t necessarily secure a future with them.
With a faint smile, he tipped his head. “You are wise, Miss Lockhart, to temper my pride.” His lips crooked a little as if trying to find their former humor. “Though perhaps, in the future, I might find occasion to don my shooting coat more often.”
To torture her, no doubt.
She rolled her eyes in plain sight for him to see.
She stood and watched the carriage disappear down the lane, the longing for the impossible turning her thoughts toward prayer.
If Simon Reeves could not become the hero of her story, she hoped he might become the hero of his own.