Chapter 11
Emmeline clutched her hands, as if that could help her steady her heart, threatening to burst out of her chest. In some faraway corner of her mind, she knew she wasn’t the real Maria Grey, and this man wasn’t her real fiancé—but still, everything felt so real.
This was it; the part in the play when the would-be-lovers finally laid eyes on each other. Everything hinged on it. It had to be dramatic, romantic, perfect, and that one look had to say a thousand words.
Daniel swiveled his gaze to Emmeline, eyes passing over her figure.
A dozen scenarios ran through her head. Perhaps he’d bow.
Perhaps he’d walk up to her, take her hand, and kiss it.
Perhaps he’d tilt his head and greet her with a mischievous smile, hiding unspoken promises. Kneeling would probably be too much—
Daniel raised his chin, uttered a curt “Miss Grey,” and headed down the hallway, disappearing through a door.
Louisa raised a hand as if trying to stop him and stayed in the pose, as stunned as Emmeline.
Emmeline gulped. He rejected her, and she had no idea why it hurt so much when she didn’t even know him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had never been like this in any of her books.
Was there something wrong with her?
“He must be tired from travel.” Louisa sprung back into motion and came to hold Emmeline’s hands. “He’ll behave much better at dinner, you’ll see.”
“If you wanted to know all the gossip from London, you could’ve gone there yourself.” Daniel placed the napkin back into his lap, mouth pursed.
The duchess, sitting at the head of the table, looked in no better a mood. “I was simply wondering if Lady Oxley had purchased a new poodle yet. She told me last winter she intended to do so.”
“You seem to be under the mistaken impression I spend my time in London gathering intelligence on your friends, Mother. If there were any intelligence to gather.”
Louisa, sat next to Emmeline, let out a chuckle and caught Emmeline’s eye.
“What?” Emmeline whispered.
“It’s quite strange, not being the one chided, for once.”
For a brief moment, Emmeline cheered up.
In all other aspects, the dinner was a flaming mess.
The duchess and Daniel were going at each other like two fight dogs—certainly not poodles—in a ring, while Louisa and Emmeline helplessly observed.
The duke, sitting at the foot of the table, hadn’t said a word yet, seemingly having washed his hands of the situation.
“Daniel!” The duchess put a hand on her jewel-encrusted chest. “Do you really wish to speak so in front of our guest?”
“If you didn’t want that to happen, perhaps you shouldn’t have invited her for a vacation.” Daniel’s eyes flicked to Emmeline before returning to his mother. “Or has she come to take measurements of her future quarters?”
“Well, I say!” The duchess lay down her cutlery a touch too hard, the ringing of the silver against the plate reverberating through the dining room.
“Next time, consider saying less.” Daniel scrunched up his napkin and tossed it on the table, stood, and left with the curtest nod.
A deep, uncomfortable silence descended. The duchess blinked, looking somewhere to the side as if that could take the focus off her. Even Louisa didn’t smile anymore. Emmeline gazed at the few buttered potatoes left on her plate, wishing she had the appetite to eat them.
On the bright side, at least Daniel wasn’t dismissive only of her, right?
“Well,” the duke finally said, dry joviality imbuing his tone. “If all dinners are like this, I should turn up more often.”
Rattled after the events of the day, Emmeline headed to the servants’ quarters, instead of her bedroom, after dinner.
She asked for Theo and was directed to the stables.
Odd, that he’d still be working at this hour, but when she arrived, the stables were empty.
An oil lamp on the wall flickered on its last fumes, and the horse in the nearest stall whinnied at her appearance.
“Hello?” she tried. “Theo?”
“Miss Grey?” his voice came from the outside.
She backtracked and craned her neck up.
Theo peeked past the roof, his pale face shooting out from the dark. “Is something the matter?”
She shrugged. “I wanted to talk.”
He made a move to slide down, but she stopped him with a, “No, wait” and climbed a barrel next to the wall until she was high enough Theo could hoist her up. He’d brought a blanket and had it spread across the wooden shingles.
“Uh … have a seat,” he offered, leaving her space on one side while moving as far away as the length of the blanket allowed.
She brushed her hands and sat.
“You wanted to talk,” he said after half a minute of silence.
“Right.” She stared at the bright-lit windows of the mansion across the lawn. “Lord Farenham is back.”
“Your fiancé. I know. I’ve seen him.”
She fumbled with the frills on her skirt.
“He’s not what you expected?” Theo asked.
How did he know, when even she wasn’t sure of her feelings? “Do the servants talk about him?”
“Plenty,” he said. “They say he’s a fine man, and will one day make a great master. You’re very lucky.”
Oh, no. So it was her? Did she make him behave like a villain? She couldn’t admit that to Theo, though—it was much too embarrassing. “What were you doing on the roof? Doesn’t seem like the best time to be fixing it.”
“I was stargazing. At home, I found it a pleasant place to be, on summer nights like this.”
“Hmm.” She laid down and folded her hands on her belly. Above her was the wonderfully gray, starless sky. “Right.”
“Perhaps I didn’t choose the best night to demonstrate,” Theo said, with his perfectly straight face.
She laughed.
He lay down, too, mimicking her position.
“Hardly a night to fly away to Neverland,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry?”
“Peter Pan. You—” Memories of Leon picking up the book and handing it to her raced through the dark. “You won’t know it.”
“Is it a story?”
She nodded.
“Most likely not, then. I’ve had little chance to read novels.”
“What did you read instead?”
He frowned at the starless sky. “Locke, Rousseau, Plato … I got to read Paradise Lost once. Before Jean-Baptiste dragged me out to go to the village festival.” As he talked, his frown cleared into almost a semblance of a smile.
“I don’t often pick the alternative pastime to reading,” she said, “but in this case, I’m with Jean-Baptiste.” Hadn’t he mentioned that name before? When he was talking in his sleep? “Who is he?”
“My cousin.” Theo reached a hand to his chest, fingering the locket. “He tried to get us back home. After the battle, the one they’re now calling Waterloo. We were on the ship. He’s … he’s gone.”
From the way his voice wavered close to tears, there was no doubt Jean-Baptiste meant a lot to him.
Emmeline’s body felt heavy, her limbs chaining her down even as she looked at the endless night above.
She’d never lost a close family member. Brendon and Tristan were menaces, but if something happened to them …
her throat closed at the mere thought. “I’m sorry,” she choked out.
“It’s all right.” His voice sounded numb.
She may not know how to deal with losing a loved one, but when she was down, sad over whatever little thing had upset her, she used to go to Father and tell him everything; let out the anger, the melancholy, whichever emotion prevailed.
He’d listen and hug her, and she felt so much better afterward.
She turned to face Theo. “You can tell me about him. If you wish to.”
Theo glanced at her, then back at the sky. Maybe she said too much. It was one thing to tell your woes to a parent, and another to unleash them at a stranger.
“He was three years older than me,” Theo said.
“Could never stand still, except in the mornings. Getting him out of bed in time to start work on the farm was a chore in itself! He always joked. Always was up for some kind of mischief, whether to prank the neighbor’s cart or sneak out to the village in the evening … ”
As he talked and recounted his childhood memories, and his cousin constantly dragging him into trouble, Theo’s voice lifted, and his arm fell back to his side, fingers relaxing. Emmeline grinned at his tales, realizing, somewhere in the back of her mind—it was working. She made him feel better.
“He thought the army would be another adventure. It wasn’t.” Theo grew serious again. “It was all because of me. I wanted to follow him. If I didn’t get hurt, he wouldn’t try to get us back home in the shortest way possible.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“He died because of me.”
“He was a good man, and a great cousin, for going to such lengths to save you,” she said. “The ship sinking wasn’t your fault. And if it had to happen—because fate, destiny, whatever you want—willed it to, at least he died a hero, trying to help you.”
He looked down, dark lashes resting against his pale cheeks.
She wasn’t so sure anymore if she had made it better.
With memories of Leon intertwining with her new perception of Theo, her heart ached—perhaps for both, if they shared any part of their lives, but mostly for Theo, right here, right now.
If only she could hug him, give him any kind of consolation …
“Thank you.” He raised his eyes. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to. About him.”
Her eyes stung, but she mustered a smile. “You can always talk to me.”
A corner of his mouth quirked, just enough for the acknowledgment.
“I should get back,” she said after a bit. She’d given him an opportunity to talk, but he needed time to be alone, too.
She rose and nimbly climbed off the roof, Theo helping her with the last few steps. She dusted off her hands and, for an awkward moment, they stood there, close, but not quite touching.
“Would you like me to bring you some books? Other than philosophical works, that is,” she blurted out.