by Abby Ayles
He was not sure if Emma had noticed the staff talking behind their backs, but if she had, that, too, might have had something to do with her curt acceptance of his apology. That was something for which he would not blame her.
One thing he did know for sure, however, was that he would never again be so thoughtless. He had, on no uncertain terms, meant that he would not be succumbing to such careless weakness ever again.
He may not at all regret the kiss, but he would rather die than to hurt Emma, and these outlandish rumors would certainly hurt her a great deal. He would not allow himself to take the risk of making the situation worse.
Even though he knew that Emma would not be joining them for supper, Francis still did not feel up to listening to the children’s animated chatter. Rather than to take his meal in his study, however, he decided to go to his quarters and call for a tray to be brought there when he was ready.
He scanned the bookshelf lodged in the corner of the bedroom until he found what he was searching for. Toward the end of a shelf closest to the wall, still in good condition and covered in dust, sat a book full of some of Shakespeare’s works.
He removed the book carefully from the shelf and sat in a chair nearby. He smiled sadly as he traced his fingers over the letters spelling William Shakespeare, printed intricately on the front. Using the sunlight still streaming in from the window a few feet away, he began to read.
***
Sudden, frantic knocking and a low, strange rumble roused Francis. He opened his eyes and saw that it was dark in the room. He looked at his lap, confused, and saw that the book had fallen shut, losing his place.
He rubbed his eyes with his hand and shook his head, at last realizing that he had fallen asleep in the chair.
Just then, the knocking came again. Francis started toward the door, running into another chair that he could not see in the darkness.
He changed course and headed to the small table by his bed, on which sat a candle and matches. He struck the candle, spilling a small circle of light into the room. As his vision cleared, he moved again for the door.
He threw it open, still groggy with sleep and prepared to growl at the intruders. When he looked into the hallway, he saw Rowena and Winston holding hands, their eyes wide.
“What on earth are the two of you doing?” he asked. Using the candle’s light, he checked his watch, and saw that it was 9 p.m. “You should be in bed.”
Rowena released her brother’s hand and grabbed onto her father’s.
“We were, Papa,” she said. “But then the storm came, and we became frightened.”
Francis shook his head.
“Storm?” he asked. “What storm?”
Just then, another loud rumble rattled through the room. Now more awake, Francis recognized it as thunder. He listened for another moment, and beneath the loud rumbling, he could hear a harsh, shrill whistling. He looked at the window and saw rain pouring down in torrents.
There was, indeed, a storm, and a rather bad one, from the looks and sound of it. Quite sudden, too. The weather had been flawless when he had settled into the chair to read.
“That one,” Winston said. His face was solemn, but Francis could see that his hands were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.
Francis looked at his children sympathetically. He understood why they had come to his room. When Caroline was alive, she would soothe and comfort them during bad storms, rather than sending them to the maid or nanny.
They could handle a little bit of rain and some lightning, but this storm sounded particularly nasty. As if it read his thoughts, another thunderclap roared through the sky, seeming to rattle the windows.
Francis felt Rowena shudder.
“Papa, can we sleep in your bed with you?” she asked. “Please?”
Francis had to force himself to not flinch away from his daughter. The trip they took to Charles’s house had been the most time he had spent alone with the children since Caroline had died, and he had not made an effort to spend much more time with them since they returned. The idea of them sleeping with him was too painful to bear.
“No, children,” he said firmly. “You must return to your beds.”
Another clap of thunder sounded, followed by sickening yellow lightning and another bout of the raging wind. Rowena began to sob loudly, and Winston’s tears began to fall.
“Please, Papa,” Winston said. “We are very frightened, and we cannot sleep in there alone.”
Francis’s chest ached. Winston had never called him Papa, not even when he was a toddler.
For a moment, he considered rousing Emma and asking her to let the children sleep with her, as they once did with their mother. After all, it would likely be a female presence that gave them the most comfort, since it was their mother who cared for them during storms before.
“Maybe we could just sleep on the floor in here,” Rowena said, her voice trembling. “Or in one of the chairs.”
Francis shook his head again, but with a little less conviction. He could not bring himself to grant them permission to sleep in his quarters with him. As far as he was concerned, they were getting too old to be frightened of a mere storm, even if it was a particularly loud one.
He looked at the faces of his children, which were pale and tired. They needed him, and he was still trying to push them away.
In truth, he knew they were not yet old enough to suffer a storm without fear, and he felt like an ogre for expecting them to be. His job was to make his children feel safe, and he was failing them when they needed that security the most.
At last, Francis sighed, his heart melting.
“Why don’t I take you back to your room myself and tuck you in?” he asked. “I will sit with you until you fall asleep.”
The children looked at each other, some of their fear giving way to hope. They nodded, first to each other, then in unison at their father.
“Oh, thank you, Papa,” Rowena said, wrapping her arms around her father’s waist.
Francis patted the top of her head.
“Let us get you back to bed, then,” he said.
He grabbed the candle from his bedside table and walked the children out of his room and down the hall into their bedroom. He placed the candle on a short dresser and nudged the children toward their respective beds.
He tucked Rowena in first, smoothing back strands of her hair that had stuck themselves to her sweaty forehead. Then, he moved onto Winston.
He had just smoothed down the covers when Winston threw his arms around his father. Francis stood frozen for a moment, once more surprised at his son’s affectionate behavior. He awkwardly returned the hug, patting his son on the back.
“Thank you, Papa,” Winston whispered.
Francis took a deep, trembling breath.
“Lie down, son,” he said softly. “I will be right here.”
“Papa?” Rowena asked.
“Yes?” Francis asked.
“Would you read us a story?” she asked timidly. “It would help us go to sleep quicker.”
Francis opened his mouth to reflexively deny her request. But since he would be staying with them until they fell asleep anyway, he saw no harm in complying.
“Which one would you like me to read?” he asked.
Rowena leaped from her bed and ran over to their small desk, shuffling through the stack of books and selecting one. She padded over to her father and handed him the book. Then, she settled herself back into her bed. Francis could not help but smile.
He pulled a chair to a spot directly between the children’s beds and began to read. Even though he did not do the voices like Emma did, Rowena giggled at the funny parts, and Winston made excited exclamations at the action-filled parts.
It was clear that this was a book well-known to the children, and Francis felt a bit of remorse at not even knowing what their favorite things were anymore.
The room had fallen silent, save for the sounds of the storm, by the time he finished the book
. He looked at each of his children and saw that they were fast asleep. He rose from his chair and gently restacked the books as they had been and started to exit the room.
He looked back at his children as he reached the doorway, however, and stopped. They looked so peaceful and innocent as they slept, and a sudden flood of warmth spread through his chest.
Instead of making his way back to his room, he walked over to Rowena’s bed. He leaned down and softly kissed the top of her head. She stirred and murmured but did not awaken. He repeated the gesture with Winston. He, however, rolled over, and his eyes cracked open sleepily.
“I love you, Father,” Winston mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed again almost immediately.
Francis’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. He was simultaneously ashamed of himself for pushing away his children for so long and grateful that they had not given up on him in all that time.
“I love you, too, son,” Francis whispered.
He reclaimed his seat and sat watching his children sleep until the storm began to die and the sky began to lose its nighttime darkness.
He discovered that he was glad that he had spent this time with them. As he watched their little faces, he realized just how much he really did love them.
With more relief than surprise, he also noted that his interaction with them that night did not hurt him nearly as much as he had feared it would. In fact, it had been pleasantly cathartic and wonderful.
For the first time since their mother died, looking at his children was comforting, rather than painful. He did not know precisely when this development had occurred, or what had prompted it.
Then, as he pondered this miracle, Emma’s face came unbidden to his mind. He smiled, wondering if this was yet another one of the wonderful things she had done for his family.
Chapter 19
Emma spent the rest of the evening cursing herself.
Once she had calmed herself and taken a moment to think, she knew well that Francis had not meant harm with his apology. Even if he was apologizing for kissing her, it was merely because she had fled like a frightened child.
If that had accomplished anything, it would have been to make him regret wanting her. Or, it at least made him regret letting her know that he did.
It seemed that he did not wish to do anything that would cause her to push him away, and she had acted foolishly yet again, despite his effort to rectify the situation.
However, Emma also knew that it did not matter what either of them wanted, even if they both wanted the same thing. She could want him like mad, and that, she did, and the feeling could be mutual, but it could, and would, never be.
In many ways, that was worse to her than the uncertain, confusing waltz they had been dancing around each other’s feelings, and their own. Knowing that she wanted a man she would never have weighed heavily on her. She only hoped that this was not how Francis felt, as well.
For the time being, however, she could not think about the situation any longer. She had other business to which she must attend.
Marcus’s mention of their father’s ships was still prominent on her mind, and she knew that she needed to get to the bottom of the oversight.
She still could not fathom how Lucius could have made such a large mistake, but she knew that it must be rectified, and as quickly as possible. Marcus’s very life might depend on it, after all.
Emma started toward Francis’s study, then froze. How could she go ask him for an afternoon off after she had behaved so erratically? How could she face him at all?
Yet, she knew that she must tell him. If she took off without telling him, he might think she had simply quit. Or, worse, the children might think she had abandoned them.
She considered writing a note and slipping it under his study door, then thought better of it. If he was inside, he might come outside and catch her before she could get back to her bedroom.
Then, she thought about Margaret. As the children’s nanny, she had spent a great deal of time with Emma, and Emma was beginning to think of her as a friend. While the rest of the house staff looked at Emma as though she and Francis had done something scandalous, Margaret was still kind and friendly to her.
If Margaret believed the rumors being whispered, she either did not care or did not seem to feel that it made Emma some kind of social pariah.
Emma exited her room and went in search of Margaret, who she found carrying a large bundle of the children’s clothes down the stairs.
“Margaret,” Emma said.
Margaret turned and smiled brightly at her.
“Emma,” she said. “Do you need something?”
“I was hoping to ask a small favor of you, if I may,” Emma said.
“Of course,” Margaret said, gesturing with her head for Emma to follow her. Her hands were quite full, so Emma reached out her hands.
“Here, let me help you carry some of that,” she said.
Margaret nodded gratefully.
“Oh, thank you,” she said.
Emma walked with Margaret to the scullery. They placed the clothes in a tub with some other dirty clothing, so that the other servants could get to it the next morning. Then, she and Margaret went into the drawing room.
It was quiet and completely unoccupied, unlike the servants’ quarters, and for that, Emma was grateful.
“Now, what was it that you needed?” Margaret asked.
“I need you to pass along a message to Lord Ashfield if you would,” Emma said.
Emma could see a variety of thoughts swirl behind Margaret’s eyes. For a moment, Emma regretted her decision.
What if this strange request had made Margaret believe something did happen between her and Francis? Was Margaret about to start questioning her about the rumors?
Instead, Margaret creased her brow, and her eyes filled with concern.
“Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice sincerely matching her eyes.
Emma sagged with relief.
“I just have an important errand to run tomorrow afternoon,” she began. Then, she paused.
She had not thought about what excuse she would offer as to why she was not speaking to Francis about this directly. She thought quickly.
“I needed to ask Lord Ashfield for the time off, but I do not wish to disturb him in his study. I was wondering if you would mind letting him know tomorrow.”
Margaret’s eyes lit up with understanding, and Emma instantly regretted lying to her friend.
Emma knew that Margaret, and all the other servants, had witnessed Francis’s agitation at being interrupted while in his study and that Margaret would ask nothing further if Emma offered that as her excuse.
As expected, Margaret simply nodded.
“I would be happy to let him know for you,” she said, giving Emma another smile.
Emma returned her smile and gently squeezed her arm.
“Thank you, Margaret,” she said.
“Not at all,” Margaret said warmly. “Would you like me to walk with you up to your room?”
Emma shook her head.
“I think I will read for a while yet,” she said.
“Alright,” Margaret said. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Emma said.
After Margaret left the room, Emma selected a book and curled up in a corner that was mostly obscured from the door. She could see the doorway, but she would not be easily visible to anyone passing by.
She read until she could not keep her eyes open any longer, then at last retired.
The next morning, she flew through the children’s lessons. She was not nervous, but she was ready to get to the bottom of the situation.
Fortunately, the children did not seem to notice that she was preoccupied and were again thrilled when she released them a bit early.
She slipped out of the house, swallowing a pang of guilt at having not told Francis herself. She hoped that he would not think that she was once more running from him.
Perhaps, once Luci
us found the mistake and recovered her father’s ships, her mood would lighten considerably, and she would be able to put her discomfort behind her and explain things to Francis.
Emma was relieved to see that Lucius’s office was empty, save for his employees, when she arrived. She announced herself to the man sitting behind the desk, and the man smiled and vanished to tell Lucius that Emma was waiting. A moment later, the man reappeared, with Lucius following right behind him.