Chapter 20 Call me Emma
CALL ME EMMA
EMMA
Harriet lifted her spoon of porridge and slowly upended it. Misshapen lumps plopped into her bowl. “I never thought I would miss Mrs. Goddard’s oatmeal.”
I smiled until I could pry my glued teeth apart to answer. “It is very wholesome.” Harriet’s answering sigh was so tremendous that I added, “We could have our luncheon at the school.”
“Will you stay that long?”
Harriet planned to spend today at the Martin school, assisting with something or other. That made me uneasy, but it was convenient as well. I had returned to the school with her yesterday, and I felt a desperate need to go again.
“I thought I would read to Nessy,” I said. “We are at an exciting point in her book.”
Mrs. Hickinbottom, the widow who rented the spare room where we boarded, scurried into the parlor, her fluttering cotton bonnet framing a hopeful smile. “Is breakfast to your taste, ma’am?”
“It is nice, thank you,” I said. Harriet coughed dramatically, and I continued more loudly, “Is there tea?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Hickinbottom ran out, ran back with a teapot, and poured two cups of a liquid dark as dirt. I thanked her as the bitter scent of over-steeped leaves spread, and she scurried out again.
Harriet sniffed her cup warily. “Must we drink this?”
“She is trying her best. A lady is always polite.”
Harriet muttered, “Yes, Miss Woodhouse.”
My brother-in-law’s casual contempt of Harriet rose in my memory, and I said, “Emma.”
Harriet was poking her spoon in and out of her porridge. She looked up, puzzled.
“You should address me as Emma,” I repeated.
“I could not!”
“We are two ladies traveling together. It is proper.”
After a dumbstruck silence, she said, “Yes, Miss—” then winced and stammered out “Emma” with a flustered blink. We both laughed, and I felt a surge of affection.
Harriet jiggled her teacup handle, the inky surface wobbling. “Why do you wish me to marry a gentleman?”
“You are a lady.”
“But I met my father last year. He is a tradesman.”
Postponing my answer, I picked up my gloves from the table edge and closed my eyes to put them on.
Yesterday, I had dressed with my eyes open. I even enjoyed the amateur assistance of our host’s young daughter. But today had been a tense terror. Harriet rescued me when the girl could not fasten my dress quickly enough. The reservoir of strength I had gained at Chathford House was draining.
Eyes still closed, I fastened the pearl button at each wrist and said, “What was it like? To be told who your father was when you were seventeen?”
Harriet’s voice was soft. “When I was little, I dreamed my father would ride to Mrs. Goddard’s on a huge horse and give me presents wrapped in pink paper.
Then he did come, and he did give me a present but not in pink paper, and we stared at each other in the school parlor, and he had saggy whiskers and a bent hat, and he seemed frightened of me.
That was after you helped me survive my foolish infatuation for Mr. Elton, and I thought…
I have been on my own all this time. What good is a father now?
And he never visited again. So not good for anything at all. ”
Tears stung the inside of my closed lids. Firmly, I said, “Put him out of your mind.”
“I am not a lady, Miss Woodhouse.”
I opened my eyes and gave a smile. “Miss Bennet would say you have a right to bind, and she is quite correct. Read this.” I passed Harriet the letter that had been folded under my gloves.
The thick paper had been addressed to Chathford House in a weighty, masculine hand, and one of the Darcys’ footmen had delivered it this morning.
Harriet read aloud:
“Dear Miss Woodhouse,
I have thought upon our discussion of your friend’s plight. I plan to lunch with Mr. John Debrett next week. I am sure you understand the significant opportunity this presents. If this interests you, speak with me at the Darcys’ upcoming ball.
Yours, &c.
Mr. Rosdan Tinsdale, MP.”
Harriet’s features crumpled in dismay. “Mr. Tinsdale? That horrid man!”
“His politics are unpleasant, but politics are irrelevant in polite society. What matters is that he is willing to help.”
Harriet shook her head desperately. “Did you see his face when he met me?”
“Whatever you imagined, put it aside. This is an introduction to Mr. Debrett! Debrett’s Dracal Lineage includes all of England’s prestigious wyves. When you are listed, no gentleman will doubt your ability to bind.”
Mrs. Hickinbottom returned with a nervous curtsy. “Pardon me, ma’am, but a gentleman is at the door for you. Your brother, he says.”
“John is here?” I exclaimed. Harriet had met my sister and brother-in-law in Highbury, and she smiled in happy surprise. That faded when I said, “Excuse me, Harriet. I will speak with him and return.” I sounded nervous even to my own ears.
I followed Mrs. Hickinbottom from the parlor, but she slowed in the corridor, then stopped well short of the closed front door.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
“If the gentleman is your brother… ma’am, it is just the matter of the bill. I mentioned that we settle each morning. It is three days now.”
I bit my lip. My funds had shrunk to a handful of crowns and shillings. But success was so close. I would find the money. Emma Woodhouse was rich, handsome, and clever.
“It slipped my mind.” I smiled. “I do not have my purse. May I pay you this afternoon?”
“Of course, ma’am.” She dipped nervously, then opened the front door and hurried toward the kitchen.
John was pacing outside, pompous and frowning. “Emma.”
“John. May I ask how you knew I was here?”
“I listened to you fraternize with your driver as you left. Although it was a chore to find which of these homes you were in.” He swung an accusing finger toward the row of modest houses, then peered past me into the hallway. “Can we speak?”
“The parlor is occupied. I prefer to converse in public.” I stepped past him onto the small landing so we were in plain view to passersby. My elbow still ached from the wrench he had given me.
His jaw worked, then he held up a folded piece of paper. “This is a doctor’s bill. A copy was delivered to me as a ‘courtesy’ because the amount is past due.” He unfolded it and read mockingly, “ ‘A consultation for vapors and illusions of the mind.’ ”
The terror of discovery jammed my thumping heart into my throat. I swallowed twice. Treat this as business, nothing more. “I will pay that.”
He squinted at the paper and pursed his lips in an airy whistle. “Nine pounds, seven shillings. Such an expensive doctor.”
“I said I will pay it.” I had saved half the sum last month—ransacking old purses and collecting the change from butcher orders—but all that had gone toward this trip.
John smiled. “The money is no concern. Not between family.” His smile became a vicious sneer. “My concern is your safety. A woman who is so unwell cannot be unsupervised. She cannot live alone in a monstrous house like Hartfield.”
Wild thoughts for how to raise the money vanished. I was lost. My attempt to be healed had ruined me.
“Miss Woodhouse is perfectly well,” Harriet announced, stepping out onto the landing between us.
John backed a step. “Miss Smith. You are interrupting a private conversation.”
“But I cannot let you worry!” Harriet exclaimed, her eyes wide with sincerity.
“Miss Woodhouse and I went with my friend to the doctor, then Miss Woodhouse offered to pay for the visit. She was wonderfully generous. My friend was worried that some horrid person would”—Harriet leaned conspiratorially close and finished ferociously—“pry.”
“I do not believe you,” John said bluntly.
Harriet elevated her nose. One would never know she had delivered a massive fabrication. “Ask the doctor, then.”
John folded his arms, eyes flicking between us. He crumpled the paper into his pocket. “Very well. I will pay this. From your accounts.” He waved disparagingly at the door behind us. “But do not imagine I will fund your gallivanting about London!”
He stomped to a waiting coach. The driver craned around in his seat, waiting as traffic passed, then snapped the reins and rolled off.
Still I stood, paralyzed by the specter of disaster.
If I had said one more word—if I had asked for help or begged for sympathy—he would have had his proof.
He could have destroyed me. Ejected me from Hartfield. Placed me in an asylum.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Harriet said gently. “Will you come inside? We must get ready. I do not want to be late to help with the class.”
“Call me Emma,” I whispered.