by Abby Ayles
Emma rose from the bed. There was something she needed.
She glanced at her reflection in her mirror and was relieved to see that she did not look quite as haggard and tired as she felt. She was not yet ready to answer Francis’s questions, but she was ready to discuss something with him.
She did not wish for things to be as strained between them as they had been since he had attempted to kiss her. An awkward relationship simply would not do once Marcus succumbed to the illness, not when Francis would be the one thing she absolutely knew she could count on.
She went straight to his study. To her relief, the door was open, and he was inside. He was standing by the window overlooking the vast grounds, holding a snifter of brandy.
She raised her hand to knock but he must have seen her from the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, placing his brandy on the desk.
“Miss Baker,” he said, his voice a mixture of relief and surprise. “Please, come in.”
Emma entered the study. Francis moved to the chair in front of the desk and pulled it out for her. Then, he went to his own seat.
“What can I do for you?” he asked hopefully.
Emma smiled.
“I have been thinking,” she said. “And I really do hate that things have been so strange between us lately.”
Francis paled, but he said nothing. Emma continued.
“I really wish that things could be the way they once were… before,” she said. “I want us to be able to speak to one another again without getting upset or running from each other.” She laughed. “Or, rather, without me running from you.”
The color returned to Francis’s face, which was now a flurry of emotions. Emma could see that he was trying to decide on the appropriate way to respond.
“I understand that my reactions have made it difficult to return things to normal,” Emma continued. “However, I will do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
Francis practically leaped from his seat. He hurried around the desk and took the chair directly beside Emma.
Her heart raced, unsure of what his intentions were. However, he sat a respectable distance from her, without so much as touching her hand.
“You are not at all to blame for the way you have behaved,” Francis said firmly. “Not a soul would blame you for acting as you have. No, it is I who is to blame.”
He sighed and looked away for a moment, as though trying to think carefully before speaking. “I would like nothing more than for things to be as they were, before my inconsiderate behavior.”
Emma looked at him thoughtfully. She had noticed that he did not try again to apologize for kissing her. But she also noticed that he did not seem to be speaking the full truth.
He had looked back up at her, but he would not quite meet her eyes, and his expression held more words than he spoke. Indeed, at that moment, it appeared to Emma that what he really wanted was something more than what they had.
Her heart squeezed because she knew that she wanted that, as well.
However, rather than call him out on the thoughts conveyed on his face, she merely smiled.
“Then, so shall it be,” she said.
The relief was quite apparent on Francis’s face, but she said nothing about that, either. Instead, she rose from her seat.
“I will see you at supper,” she said. She was still smiling as she left the study.
Chapter 22
In the days following his conversation with Emma, things did, indeed, go back to the way they were.
Emma once more smiled at him when they passed each other throughout the house, and she had even returned to her normal, blunt self.
This time, when she would tell him exactly what she thought or how she felt about something, he felt no annoyance. Instead, he felt pleased, almost thrilled. However, even though he should not, he had to admit to himself that he wished that things could progress.
He could not help the continued effect that Emma was having on him and, in truth, with each passing day, he had less and less desire to try to help it.
As the two-year anniversary of Caroline’s death approached, however, he began to withdraw again, from his children and from Emma.
At first, Emma said nothing about it to him. She would merely give him curious looks. On a couple of occasions, she would begin to speak, but then change her mind and give Francis a sweet smile.
However, one day as he sat in his study, trying and failing to focus on a stack of paperwork in front of him, Emma knocked on the open door.
Despite his darkened mood, he was pleased to see her. He motioned for her to enter, pushing the papers to the side, in case she noticed that he had not done a thing to any of them, which he knew she would. He nonchalantly placed a folder on the top of the stack.
“Yes, Miss Baker?” he asked, wincing at the false brightness that his voice projected.
Emma studied him for a moment, and Francis cursed himself.
“Are you alright?” she asked, opting to stand rather than taking a seat. Francis could guess why.
Francis gave her his best casual smile.
“Certainly,” he said, his voice still annoyingly chipper. “Why do you ask?”
Emma frowned, still staring at him.
“You have spent very little time with the children in days,” she said in her strong, direct manner. “And you have taken the last three days’ worth of meals in here.”
“So, you have been keeping count of my absences?” he asked. He had meant for the words to sound light and teasing, but instead, they came out harsh and cool.
Emma blinked and scowled. She put her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Seeing as how we agreed that things would return to normal, with neither of us avoiding the other, I suppose I have been,” she retorted.
Francis flushed and sighed. He had wanted her to stop running and hiding from him, and here he was, doing exactly that to her. He knew that he owed her an explanation, but he was unsure of whether he had one.
“Caroline’s death anniversary is on Friday,” he said bluntly.
He gaped, unable to believe that he had blurted it out so plainly. As he spoke the words, he instantly felt nervous.
Would she be like everyone else and think that he should be moved on already? Would she feel that that was no excuse for once more pushing away the people who cared the most about him?
Rather than saying any of those things, however, Emma’s face softened quickly. She seated herself and reached across the desk, placing her hand over his.
Francis found great comfort in the gesture and made no move to remove his hand from hers.
“I had not realized that the date was so close,” Emma said, her eyes full of sympathy and concern. “Please, forgive me.”
Francis looked at her and tried to smile.
“It is quite alright,” he said. “I am glad you felt that you could come to me and call me out on my behavior.”
Emma returned a sad smile.
“Is there something I can do to help?” she asked.
Francis shook his head. He withdrew his hand from hers slowly at last and ran both his hands through his hair.
“I will be taking a trip to the cemetery on… that day,” he said. “And I do so dread it.”
Emma nodded sympathetically, perhaps thinking of her trips to visit her own parents’ graves.
“It can be such a painful affair,” she said.
“Indeed,” Francis said.
He stood and walked to the side table in his study, where he kept his brandy. He poured himself a glass and raised it at Emma questioningly, offering her some. She smiled politely and shook her head.
He replaced the lid on the brandy decanter and seated himself once more. There was one thing he wanted to ask of her, but he could not bring himself to do it.
“Would it help if I were to go to the cemetery with you?” she asked. “If that would not be too intrusive, that is.”
Francis stared at her in disbelief. Did s
he have some sort of mind-reading ability?
“If it is, forget that I mentioned it,” she said quickly.
Francis shook his head rapidly.
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “I am just… surprised that you would be willing to offer.”
Emma smiled, and Francis could not help thinking again just how beautiful she was.
“I wish to do anything I can to help,” she said. “For both you and the children.”
Francis did not hesitate with his response.
“That would be very much appreciated,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Baker.”
He flinched, hoping that he did not sound as desperate to her as he did to himself. Her saddened expression told him that he did, however, and again he cursed himself.
“It is my pleasure,” she said.
She raised her hand just slightly, then lowered it. She seemed to be arguing with herself about something, but at last, she simply stood slowly.
“I must get back to the children’s lessons,” she said. “But I will be ready on Friday morning to ride into town with you.”
“Thank you,” Francis repeated.
Emma nodded her head once, then made her exit. Francis stared after her, long after she was out of view, thinking for the hundredth time how grateful he was for her.
***
By Friday morning, Francis was in shambles. He had not slept at all the night before, and although Emma was going with him to the cemetery, he still felt as though his nerves had been stripped and rubbed raw.
He had given the nanny strict instructions to keep the children well occupied while he and Emma were gone, and to say nothing at all about where they had gone.
As promised, Emma was ready and waiting that morning. She was ready even before he was. Francis wanted to smile, but his mind was far too heavy.
“Are you ready?” he asked, feeling foolish at once since she obviously was.
“I am,” she said warmly. “And, I hope you do not mind, but I took the liberty of checking to ensure that the carriage was being prepared.”
Francis groaned. He had, indeed, forgotten to have the butler begin preparing the coach. Under normal circumstances, he would likely chastise Emma for stepping so far out of her station. That day, however, he was intensely grateful.
“You are a godsend,” he said.
Emma blushed and smiled.
“Let us go,” she said, offering her arm to him. He accepted it readily, and they exited the house and boarded the carriage.
The ride to the cemetery was a silent one. This time, however, the silence between him and Emma was not an awkward one.
She did not try to fill the silence with strained small talk or try to get him to open up about his emotions. And Francis was content to gaze out the window at the passing scenery and steal glances at Emma from the corner of his eye.
She seemed enthralled by the beauty of the landscape, smiling slightly at the sight of a bird and her eyes lighting up when the carriage slowed near flower bushes or brightly colored foliage.
Her pleasure at such simple things gave Francis a small measure of comfort, and once more he was glad that she had offered to come with him.
When the carriage slowed to a stop at the cemetery, however, his sore nerves returned. He exited the carriage and helped Emma step out, then he led them straight to Caroline’s grave.
By the time they reached it, Francis felt faded. It took him a moment to realize that Emma had taken his arm and was gripping it firmly in her hands. He reached up and gave one of her hands a weak squeeze.
Glancing around, he saw a small group of people standing near another headstone not far away. He resisted the urge to chuckle as he wondered what anyone who might be paying any attention to them might be thinking, seeing him visiting his late wife’s grave with another woman.
After a moment, he decided that he did not care.
He maintained some semblance of composure until he saw Caroline’s name on the stone at their feet. Then, as though a locked door had been suddenly yanked open, he began to cry.
Emma tightened her grip on the hand that was gripping hers, but she said nothing. She stood silently while he cried, gently massaging his hand.
After a few moments, Francis wiped at his eyes with his hand. It took him a moment to register that Emma was holding something out to him. He squinted through his tear-blurred vision and saw that it was a handkerchief.
A moment of shame took hold of Francis and he took the handkerchief gently, turning his face away from Emma as he tried to clean away his tears.
He took a few deep breaths, trying to ensure that his breakdown was finished before he turned back to Emma. He started to tuck her now dirty handkerchief into his pocket, but she took it from him gently.
“I will see to it that this gets washed,” she said kindly.
Francis smiled gratefully at her.
“Caroline was kind, like you,” he said. He bit his lip, unsure whether it was appropriate to pour all his feelings out to Emma.
“Tell me about her,” Emma said. Her words were gentle, but it was not a request. “It will help you feel better if you talk to someone. And I am happy to listen.”
Francis looked at her, again wondering if she could read his mind. He took a deep, shaky breath.
“She was very kind, very thoughtful,” he said.
He surprised himself by jumping right into talking about her, and more still when he could not stop himself.
“But she was very reserved and quiet. She was smart, but not exactly clever. Nor was she persistent. Like you,” he said with a strained chuckle.
Emma smiled but said nothing. She merely gestured for him to continue.
“She worshipped the children, too,” he said, remembering the doting glow on her face whenever she looked at Winston and Rowena.
Emma stroked the back of his hand but still said nothing. Francis could feel the comfort radiating off of her, and he found that he did not wish to stop talking.
“I was with her the day she died,” he said. The images came flooding back, and he felt himself sway with the mental impact. “Those bastards… they should not have been dueling so close to the edge of the forest, so close to town.”
Francis could not stop the memories. It still played out in slow motion, just as it had the day Caroline had died.
It had taken him a moment to realize that the loud sound he had heard was, in fact, a gunshot, and a moment longer to realize that Caroline was falling to the ground. By the time he had understood what was happening, Caroline was on her knees, clutching her stomach.
“I knelt down with her, not seeing what had happened. I thought she was ill,” he recalled. “I could not see the blood until I moved her hand. Until I looked at her back. Her dress was…” he paused, choking on a sob.
Emma brought out the handkerchief and pressed it into his hand, but he barely noticed. He felt as though he was reliving the event all over again.
Yet, he did indeed find a sort of cathartic release in telling the story to Emma.
“It is alright,” Emma said, her voice sad but soothing. “Take your time.”
Francis nodded and wiped furiously at his eyes with the handkerchief, trying to compose himself. He took another deep breath.
“There was so much blood,” he said. “I do not think I will ever forget the blood. Her blue dress became a crimson-purple. And she… she died in my arms, coughing up blood, and gasping for breath. I scrubbed my hands for days, sure that I could still see the stains of her blood.” He coughed on a sob.
“Did no one call for a doctor?” Emma asked. She blushed immediately, as though regretting having spoken. Francis squeezed her hand.
“Someone apparently did, because the next thing I knew, one was gently pulling me from her to try to tend to her,” he said. “But it was far too late. Even though she was clinging to life when he arrived, the bullet wound had hit a major artery, and she was bleeding too much and too quickly to be saved.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Francis nodded.
“The bastards who were responsible now rot in prison,” he said. “But that hardly feels like justice. Not when their stupid carelessness cost me the future I thought I would get to have. Cost me the person I used to be. It is not fair.”