Chapter Twenty-Four
The darkness of winter did not conceal the bitter reality of the house Emily lived in.
As they approached, the dilapidated carriage swaying alarmingly, the golden lamp on the front illuminated the barren front garden and the gate, which had largely fallen off its hinges.
Beyond, the house loomed, half its windowsills rotten, and the other half boarded.
Emily had done that herself after a particularly bad storm the previous winter had blown the glass in.
Weeds strangled the path to the door, half dead, poking from the slush like gravestones.
Quiet despair settled on her heart at the sight. Her father’s home, fallen into disrepair. The remainder of her life to be spent here with no reprieve.
Opposite her, Oliver looked at the house without speaking, no doubt thinking many of the things she was. She had rejected him for this; it could not fail to be a blow to his ego. Or worse, a blow to his heart. No matter how transient his affections may be, she had no doubt he felt them for her.
Time would heal them, but for now, she expected he felt the sting as painfully as she did.
He swung his gaze to her. “So this is goodbye.”
This was so much worse than she had imagined it would be.
His fingers still curled around hers, and she freed them without effort; he released her at once.
His eyes were shadowed in the dim light, but she saw the inner corners of his mouth press into a thin line, and she felt his pain deep in her chest, as though she were a tree and he wielded an axe, and he had just sent her tumbling down.
“Don’t think ill of me,” she said. “If you can.”
His mouth softened, just a fraction. “I could never think ill of you.”
“I’m sure you could contrive to. But thank you for saying it.
” She wished she could lean in and press her lips to his, one last time, but that would be foolish.
So, instead, she folded her hands on her lap.
The moment stretched between them. All the things she wanted to say crowded her throat; she could say none of them.
“Goodbye, then,” she said as the gruff, maybe-drunk coachman swung open the door.
Rain splattered inside, and she climbed out into dreadful, miserable weather.
The rust on the gate bit into her hands as she swung it open, and she cast one final glance back at the carriage.
The door still hung open as Oliver watched her from inside the carriage.
A cold wind tucked under her collar, and she put her head down as she hurried to the front door, pushing at the handle to open it. Locked.
Of course it was locked; Emily should have thought about this, but she had not thought to take a key with her. The only thing she had taken was the pistol, but that would be no help now.
She rapped on the door, peering through the nearest window to see if she could find a light.
Nothing. Only cobwebs and blackness. After a few more moments of silence, she made her way along the path to the back of the house, familiarity leading the way even in the dark.
The back door led into the kitchens, and even here, the windows were blank.
For the first time, panic crept into her throat.
If Isabella were here, she would at least have a single candle lit.
They usually spent their time in the kitchen, but it was entirely plausible that Isabella had instead gone upstairs.
But the upper floor lay as dark as the lower.
And there were no footsteps approaching at the sound of her knocking.
No sound stirring at all. It was as though the house had been abandoned.
Her damp cloak pulled around her, Emily pounded harder, hitting the wood until her hands ached. Still, there was nothing.
Where could Isabella be? Of course, it was plausible that she had left the house to go to the tavern or somewhere for entertainment.
When was the dance at the Rose if Isabella had gone, where had she found the funds?
Had she gone to stay with a friend? If so, Emily couldn’t imagine whom it could be; Isabella was generally loved by everyone, but very few people had enough surplus over winter to feed another mouth.
“Isabella!” she called. “It’s Emily. Open the door.”
No reply.
She turned, about to hurry to the front door and try again, when a figure loomed from the gloom. A scream built in her throat; she sucked in air to release it.
“It’s me,” Oliver said urgently, his hand finding hers. His skin was so warm. “What’s wrong?”
Rain drowned them both. He had abandoned the relative safety of the carriage for this. “I’m not sure,” she said. “The door’s locked and Isabella isn’t letting me in.”
He glanced at the house. “She doesn’t seem to be here.”
“Then where could she be?” Emily demanded, her panic getting the better of her. “You don’t understand—we have nothing. Even if we had family somewhere for her to visit, she could not have afforded to travel there.”
“There could be a wholly reasonable explanation.”
There could be, but that creeping feeling of dread was crawling up her spine again, the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
There had been enough food for the week, if Isabella had been careful—she wouldn’t have starved. But could she have fallen ill? Without Emily, there was no one to look after her.
“Do you want to come back to the Rose I have found a greater prize, and one you failed to win.
Are you not proud of me? You ought to be, considering the lengths you went to in order to steal Mr Beaumont.
When we next meet, you will have to curtsy and refer to me as ‘my lady’ for I will outrank you.
Isabella
“My lady,” Emily whispered, brushing the page as though she could summon her sister from it. “Oliver . . . Does she mean what I think she does?”
Oliver stared at the note, his mouth in a hard line, the candlelight gleaming in his eyes. “It’s possible another lord travelled to the area.”
“Possible, but likely? This week? Lord Marlbury is the only lord I have ever met in all my years living here. Which means—it has to mean—”
“She has run off with Lord Marlbury,” he said grimly.