Chapter 7 #2
“Beatrice has written to my mother,” Emily said the moment they were far enough ahead of Rosalie’s parents to speak freely, covering the birdsong with the sound of her voice.
“Not directly about T, naturally. She is too clever for that. But enough little hints... A remark about how his uncle has been seen in certain company of late... Something about how some families cannot help attaching themselves above their station, written with a joke, so that if my mother repeated it back to her Beatrice could claim she meant nothing at all by it. I detest that woman. My mother has not said his name aloud in a week, and usually she mentions him at least once a day in warning.”
“I am so sorry for you, and sorry that Beatrice Levant exists.” Rosalie’s stomach twisted, and she patted her friend’s arm where it rested against hers.
She could not talk about the terrace, because as far as Emily knew, she had kissed Thomas as planned.
The lie was swallowing her piece by piece.
“The gentleman... You have received no word from him?”
Emily slowed her pace and looked down. “Nothing. Not a note.” After a moment, she looked up.
“Please tell me you do not blame yourself. You did as I asked, and I will be grateful to you until the day I die. I know you would not lie to me and say you kissed someone when you didn’t.
There was nothing wrong with your kiss. I’m sure it was lovely. ”
Rosalie swallowed hard. She wanted to tell Emily the truth, but she couldn’t form the words.
Something was stopping her. Her own shame, the memory of the Duke of Hartmere, the fear that if Emily knew about the reality of that kiss, someone would find out what had happened.
Her eyes smarted with tears. How could she make things right for Emily and Thomas without compromising herself?
She hated the kiss. Everything had been so simple before that kiss.
“Come now, Rosie.” Emily cooed, shaking her head. “You’re more upset about this than me. Sometimes the two of us have gone weeks without writing to one another. A little delay means nothing. He could be busy. Don’t you trust me?”
“Yes.” Rosalie tried to smile. “I do trust you, but...”
Emily squeezed her arm fiercely. “Then trust me that everything will turn out as planned. None of this is your fault. It is Beatrice’s doing, and my mother’s stubbornness, and possibly a little bit my father’s fault for being under my mother’s thumb.
And maybe my own, I’ll admit, for falling in love in the first place.
No... You played your part admirably. The rest will be what it will be. ”
“Not all is lost, then.”
“Not at all.” Emily exhaled. “The situation is far from hopeless, I think. My father was a young man once with friends in all sorts of places. He sometimes remembers what it was like to be looked down upon by people who had done nothing to deserve their own good fortune. I think given time he might yet come round, whatever my mother says. And the letter from T could arrive any moment.”
“And what if it does not?”
Emily was quiet, her face lifting toward the sky.
“Then I shall have to decide how much I am willing to risk for love... But let us not speak of that yet. This talk of T is souring my afternoon.” Her eyes brightened as she turned them toward Rosalie.
“Tell me instead what I have heard about the Duke of Hartmere saving your life at Lord Peachey’s table last night. ”
Rosalie started, tripping over the gravel. Emily caught her and laughed, steadying her. She kicked out her skirts and tried to compose herself, asking, “You know?”
“Of course I know. I know everything always.”
“He did not save my life,” Rosalie said weakly. “I choked on some of the food.”
“That can’t be everything. He had his arms around you in front of the entire dinner party. My mother heard of it before we had even finished breakfast this morning, which tells you exactly how far it has already traveled. How exciting, Rosalie. I know you’ll hate this, but it is so exciting.”
“It was not exciting at all. I was choking.” Rosalie stopped, aware of her own voice rising. “There would be no other reason for a man to grab a woman unless she was dying. I almost wish I had died. I would very much like never to discuss it again.”
“The rags will write about it. I wish I had been there.”
“No, you do not.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing,” Rosalie protested, tightening her coat around her shoulders. “It’s merely cold.”
“It’s practically bathing weather. You have never blushed over Mr. Sinclair, and yet you cannot say the duke’s name without turning the color of a strawberry. I do not think that is nothing at all, whatever you would have me believe. Oh, how I wish I had been there.”
Rosalie pressed her lips together. Her mother had been thrilled by the development of the night prior, that Mr. Sinclair had all but asked to court her officially despite the other ongoing antics.
Emily already knew too much. Rosalie resolved to keep the news about Mr. Sinclair to herself until it was important for people to know.
Emily opened her mouth to ask something more, but at that moment a sound caught their attention, and they turned toward it.
On the plain in front of them, a pair of horses and their riders were approaching at speed from behind a thick line of trees.
Hooves thundered against the ground, kicking up dirt and appearing in flashes between the thick trunks of the spruces.
There was masculine laughter, someone daring someone else to ride faster around the bend.
Rosalie grabbed Emily and pulled her off the path, worried the men would not see them in time and knock them over.
“Don’t you wish you could ride like that?” Emily said wistfully, pointing at them.
“No,” Rosalie laughed.
She squinted at the approaching riders, trying to discern their identities.
Her stomach dropped as one of them said something else, and the tone was too familiar for her comfort.
And then there it was: the dark hair, the rumbling laugh, the confidence in the saddle.
He was bare-headed, his dark riding coat blowing behind him in the wind as he raced in her direction with so much speed and power he looked like a dream.
Maybe not even seeing her.
Or maybe seeing only her and riding so recklessly on purpose.