Chapter 23 #2
Perhaps that hope needed redirection, because Simon Reeves was no longer part of her future.
“Thank you for escorting Emme as far as Derby, Thomas.” Father patted Thomas on the shoulder and adjusted his glasses as he
looked back at Emme, a few worry lines deepening on his brow. “I’ll feel better knowing they made it to the city without difficulty.”
“I am happy to be of service, Uncle.” Thomas tapped his hat and looked over at her, his expression a mixture of concern and
kindness.
Heat swarmed into Emme’s eyes again, threatening to spill over, but she steeled herself.
Perhaps the carriage would afford her some solitude for a proper cry.
Clara, her ever-faithful maid, wouldn’t mind—she’d seen Emme cry more than once.
Still, the shadowed quiet of the journey promised far more privacy for her battered emotions.
Father leaned close, enveloping her in a warm embrace. “It will all be all right, my girl,” he murmured near her ear, his
voice steady but strained. The waterworks almost erupted then and there.
Emme pulled back just enough to offer him a wavering smile. “Of course it will. Doesn’t it always get better, eventually?”
He smiled in return, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must write to us. We shall want to hear of your adventures.”
“I will.” Emme turned to Aster, wrapping her younger sister in a hug as well. “I’ll write to all of you. You as well, Alfie.”
She ruffled his hair, knowing he did not anticipate the duty of correspondence with any excitement.
“And send our love to your uncle and his family,” Father added, as though determined to prolong the conversation, reluctant
to say goodbye.
“Of course, Father.”
“And you needn’t feel obliged to stay away too long, Emme,” he continued. “We’re quite content having an authoress at Thistlecroft.”
Her tears betrayed her then, slipping down her cheeks as she pulled Father, Aster, and Alfie into another hug. “I love you
all.”
They held her tightly, murmuring reassurances as if they could physically anchor her to the safety of home. After a few more
parting words, Emme stepped back, her breath hitching as she turned toward the waiting carriage. Thomas stood ready, offering
his arm as she approached. Clara had already settled herself inside.
Before climbing the first step, Emme paused and turned back to Thomas, a small package tied with string clutched in her hands.
“I finished the book.”
He blinked, his brows lifting. “The new one?”
She nodded, offering the manuscript to him. “I want you to read it first, as you always do, and tell me if you think it’s fit to send to the publisher.”
He took the package with the same reverence he always showed for her stories, as if she were handing him some sacred text.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
She drew in a deep breath, her focus on the manuscript in his hands. “Because it’s not like the other books. It’s . . . more
of what you suggested.”
“And?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, a small, tremulous smile breaking through. “I’ve never been prouder of anything I’ve written.
There’s more of me in there than I ever thought possible to pen—so many loves and joys and characters and . . . life.”
His grin stretched wide, and he tucked the manuscript against his chest as though guarding a treasure. “Then it’s bound to
be a success.”
A soft laugh escaped her, though it was tinged with the ache of parting. How was it possible for the human heart to hold such
heartache and satisfaction all at once? “It already is—for me.”
“And that, my dear cousin, is what truly matters.”
She nodded, drawing in a deep breath. “Thomas—if the publishers like it . . . I want to publish it under my own name.”
His smile faltered, replaced by something deeper—respect, pride, and no small measure of admiration. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, despite the weight of her confession. “I’m tired of hiding. If it fails, so be it. But
if it succeeds, I want it to succeed as me.”
Simon recalculated the sums for the twentieth time.
Still impossible.
For two days, he had reworked the figures, consulted his steward, and renegotiated terms with the more pliable businessmen in town.
He had pursued every avenue, exhausted every possibility to improve the financial outlook for Ravenscross and his family.
Yet no matter how he twisted the numbers, without Aunt Agatha’s allowance, it all crumbled.
Of course, if Emme could wait a year—or two—then the business ventures he’d painstakingly begun might bear fruit, giving him
the freedom to live without financial dependence. But a year? Two? After everything he’d put her through already?
No, perhaps the best course of action was for Emme to marry someone more deserving.
The thought twisted his insides into knots.
He should be magnanimous, like Emme herself—hope for her to find happiness in the arms of a good, faithful man. Even if that
man were the rector.
Simon winced at the very idea.
Magnanimity, it seemed, did not suit him. The only man who should romance Emmeline Lockhart was himself.
Was he selfish? Undoubtedly.
Did he regret it? Many things, yes. Loving her? Never.
He had written to Aunt Agatha, explaining everything—before the news could reach her ears from less sympathetic mouths—but
what would she do? Her views on scandal were as rigid as her stays, and an authoress fit her definition of impropriety all
too well.
Simon ran a hand through his hair and began pacing the room—for the ninetieth time by his own count. Heaven above, was there
no other way?
Charlotte and William had tried to help, of course.
Charlotte’s suggestion of piracy had been rejected, though not without a moment’s genuine consideration on Simon’s part.
William’s equally ludicrous ideas of bank robbery or kidnapping Emme outright had been met with alarm—and, from Charlotte, a highly inappropriate snort of laughter.
Quiet people were sometimes the most unnerving if one found out what all they were really thinking.
Prayer, they had all agreed, was the best—and most legal—course of action.
And Simon made a mental note to inquire with Mrs. Patterson about what, precisely, the children were reading these days.
A sharp knock interrupted his pacing.
“Come in,” he called, turning to face the door.
Mrs. Patterson entered with her usual air of brisk efficiency. “You have a visitor, sir.”
“A visitor?” A flicker of hope stirred in his chest. Could it be Emme?
“The rector, sir.”
Simon’s shoulders sagged. Of course. A clergyman. Possibly the very man who would propose to Emme if Simon failed to resolve
his circumstances.
“Blast it all,” Simon muttered under his breath. “Perfect timing.”
Mrs. Patterson took this as assent—or as evidence that Simon was in dire need of clerical guidance—and promptly ushered in
Mr. Bridges.
Simon’s first thought—not for the first time—was how un-rector-like the man appeared. Were they even sure he was a real rector?
Most clergymen Simon had seen in the past proved much older or scabbier or . . . well, not as youthful and fashionable as
Mr. Bridges.
The man walked in and greeted Simon with a nod, a small parcel held at his side. “Good morning, Lord Ravenscross. I do apologize
for this unexpected visit.” And then he paused and looked away before meeting Simon’s gaze again. The man’s jaw set, his expression
focused, and Simon suddenly realized how such a man may very well be a force in the pulpit. “No, I take that back. I am not
sorry. I believe this visit is precisely what you need.”
Simon examined the man with renewed caution. “Is that so?”
Mr. Bridges stepped forward and offered the parcel.
“What is this?” Simon looked down at the package and slowly took it into his hands. Upon closer observation, he noticed it
was a stack of papers tied in twine.
“Emme is my cousin,” Mr. Bridges said, his voice steady, his gaze even more so. “We’ve been like siblings our entire lives.
There is no one I know better—or who knows me better—than her.”
His cousin? Like siblings? Simon’s brow rose—and the tension in his shoulders eased considerably. He much preferred that connection
over “beloved.”
Mr. Bridges gestured toward the papers. “I was the one who encouraged her to pursue publication, and I have managed the business
of her work ever since.”
Simon’s gaze dropped to the title scrawled in Emme’s familiar hand across the top page: A Ransomed Gentleman.
“There is no one of my acquaintance with as much generosity of heart as her, and I believe you’ve seen that,” the rector continued.
Simon pulled his gaze away from the title and blinked his attention back to Mr. Bridges. “I have. I know. She is the best
of women.”
The clergyman studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what power you have to change your circumstances,
or how Providence intends to guide this relationship between you and my cousin. But I do know this: I have never seen her
grieve anyone as deeply as she has grieved you. Twice.”
The words struck Simon with a dual edge.
“She would have given up her gift of writing for you,” Mr. Bridges continued, his voice softening.
Simon’s chest ached. She had said as much.
“But she is talented at storytelling and finds joy in these worlds and words she pens.” Unmistakable pride crept into his tone.
“I understand your situation is delicate. You must think of your family, and there is no shame in that. But I wonder . . .” He trailed off, his gaze sharp.
“Have you fully appreciated the woman you wish to marry? To understand the mind behind her kindness, the wit behind her words? To embrace her talents as an authoress—not merely in spite of your love for her but because of it?”
Simon stared at the manuscript, the weight of it settling heavily in his hands. What had been a simple parcel now felt like
a piece of Emme herself—vulnerable, precious, and utterly unguarded. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Thomas drew in a breath. “Because the revelation of Emme’s writing has caused a stain on her reputation among the more sanctimonious
of St. Groves—one that most would take as reason enough to distance themselves from her.”
Simon’s head snapped up, fire sparking through him. “Do you think I would let this change my feelings for her? Are you mad?”
Mr. Bridges raised a brow but said nothing, clearly unshaken by Simon’s outburst.
Simon pressed on, his jaw tense. “If I had the liberty to marry Miss Lockhart, nothing—no gossipmongers, no self-righteous
social sentinels, not even the ghost of my father—would stop me from making her my bride. If I had the liberty, she would
have left the ball last night on my arm—my fiancée—and I would have gladly announced it to the world.”
For the first time, Mr. Bridges’ expression softened, his head tilting slightly as a slow, knowing smile spread across his
face. “You hold her newest manuscript,” he said. “I just finished it. It’s the finest thing she’s ever written. And I believe
you, in particular, need to read it.”
Simon’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting down to the manuscript in his hands.
Thomas gestured toward it lightly. “It’s one thing to love a woman for the way she makes you feel, but it’s another thing
entirely to admire her for who she is.”
Simon tightened his grip on the parcel.
Thomas inclined his head and began backing toward the door.
“Reading that book won’t change your circumstances.
” He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the frame.
“But it might help you understand the woman you love in a way you haven’t yet.
And,” he added, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile, “you may even find yourself within its pages.”