by Abby Ayles
Devastated and exhausted, she boarded the carriage and let it take her away from Blackburn Manor for the very last time.
Chapter 30
Francis watched as Emma spared one final glance at the house before she shut the door and left. The emotion on her face and in her eyes and the tear stains on her cheeks would have shattered Francis’s heart, were the circumstances any other than what they were.
He suspected that she must have seen him watching her, or at least felt fairly certain that he was watching, and that her display of sadness and longing was nothing more than a grand show, put on just for the sake of appearances.
That knowledge made him angrier than he had been while confronting Emma, and he stormed up the stairs and started heading straight to his study.
On his way, he stopped and glanced toward the children’s room. He had thought he heard them shouting or sobbing, but his own emotions had the better of him just then, and he could not bring himself to seek to console them.
Before he had quite reached his study door, however, Margaret came rushing up to him. He dared not look at her, but he could see through a brief sideways glance that she was wringing her hands and her eyes were wide and fearful.
“Milord,” she said, breathless.
“Not now, Margaret,” Francis said through clenched teeth.
“Please, I beg your indulgence,” she continued in a rushed voice. “The children are absolutely inconsolable, and they only keep repeating Miss Baker’s name. Is she here?”
Francis felt an overwhelming urge to slam his hand into the wall, but he resisted. He tried to push down his shoulders and force himself to relax, if only enough to keep from making more of a scene than he already had.
“No, she is not,” Francis said, turning to walk the remaining steps to his study door.
Margaret stepped forward quickly, not quite blocking his path but making it rather difficult to move past her without bumping into her.
“When is she expected to return?” she asked, her voice pleading and harried.
Francis felt a small twinge of sympathy for her. He knew that the children were upset about Emma leaving, and thus would be nearly impossible for Margaret to console. However, she was the nanny, and it was her job.
“She is not coming back,” Francis said.
He took Margaret’s stunned slackness as his opportunity to move past her.
“But why?” Margaret asked, the pitch of her voice rising and tensing.
Francis looked at her at last with a look of pure anger.
“Because I say it is so,” he hissed. “Your job is to see to the children, not question me. I suggest that you keep that in mind and tend to your job, or else you may be next.”
Before she could say anything else, Francis walked into his study and slammed the door so forcefully that it rattled in its frame. He locked the door and then threw himself into his chair behind his desk, where he stayed until he collapsed from exhaustion on top of a large stack of papers.
For the next few days, Francis made himself scarcer than he had in months. He did not leave the study for meals or to go into town, and his clothes, which he had not changed since the morning before his confrontation with Emma, were wrinkled, disheveled and dirty.
He cared not. When he did have to leave his study, he only did so for the briefest of moments after everyone else had already gone to bed, so he could avoid any interactions with everyone.
On the fourth day, there was a loud but tentative knock at the door. Francis had been dozing in his chair holding a tumbler of brandy, and the sound made him jerk awake and splash some of the liquid on his pants.
He considered merely remaining silent, thinking that the intrusion would just vanish. Instead, a second knock came, a bit louder.
“What?” Francis roared.
He heard a man clear his throat.
“Milord,” the butler said, his voice muffled slightly through the closed door.
“Go away, Johns,” Francis called, angry that the man had not known better than to disturb him.
“Lord Townsend is here, requesting an audience,” the butler said, sounding simultaneously apologetic and urgent.
“I do not care,” Francis said, taking a drink of the remnants of the drink that had not spilled on his clothes. Even if he was of a mind to see Grant Brentwood just then, he was certainly in no condition to do so.
“He says it is quite urgent,” Johns insisted.
“And I say that you will tell him to come back tomorrow morning,” Francis growled. “I will see him then. Not now.”
Francis could hear the butler shuffle outside the door, and for a moment, Francis thought the man might insist again. After a moment, however, Francis could hear his footsteps moving away from the study door.
Of course, Francis thought bitterly. The last thing he needed just then was a visit from his father-in-law, but Francis knew that he should have expected it.
Certainly not because the elderly earl had heard about what had happened; indeed, the man would not have cared. He expected his answer, and Francis felt that he could not discuss the matter with him just then.
Especially not when his heart still hurt so for Emma.
Though he had trouble admitting it to himself, much of his anger toward Emma in fact stemmed from a deep, throbbing hurt. He had wished more than anything that she would tell him that she was not guilty.
He had prayed that she would merely tell him what it was that she was hiding about her brother, so that he could believe in her innocence and perhaps enlist her help in figuring out what it was that was really going on.
Instead, however, she had refused to trust him enough to tell him her secrets, thereby solidifying in his mind the true extent of her guilt.
In fact, she had never even directly denied stealing from him.
She had continued to claim that she had not lied to him, which had been proven false when he had confronted her about Marcus. She had also kept asking for a chance to explain, which could only mean that there was just one thing for her to explain: why she had stolen from him.
What broke his heart the most, aside from the expression of great sadness as she had left the house, was that despite his best efforts, she still seemed to have not felt safe with him. Certainly not safe enough to confide in him, or to ask him for help instead of stealing from him.
Another knock at his study door startled him. He looked around, confused, only just realizing that he must have fallen asleep again. For a moment, he panicked, thinking that he had slept through the night and that Grant Brentwood was there to have the meeting he had been promised.
However, as Francis rubbed his eyes and took a good look out of the window, he saw that the sun was setting. He had only been asleep for a few more hours.
Without thinking, he stumbled over to the study door, unlocking and opening it. He realized his mistake when he looked down and saw Winston standing there, looking timid but standing with his chin up and shoulders back.
Francis probably would have smiled if he had not still been so incredibly upset.
“Father?” Winston asked before Francis could say a word.
Exhausted and defeated, having already opened the door and thus had no way of turning away his son, Francis silently turned and walked back to his chair, leaving the door open.
As he expected, his son did not need an invitation to follow him inside.
“Where is Margaret?” Francis asked. He had meant to sound authoritative, but his voice sounded little more than tired and weary.
“Sitting with Rowena,” Winston said. “Rowena did not wish to come with me to say what it is that I have to say.”
His son’s direct, vaguely insubordinate way of speaking to him would normally have warranted a scolding. Just then, however, he felt too despondent to correct the child.
“And what is it that you feel so bold as to say to me?” Francis asked, with no real conviction behind his words.
“That I am not angry
with you,” Winston said.
Francis stared at his son, confused. Despite the boy’s timidity, Francis had fully expected his son to try to address him almost as an adult and put him in his place for his recent behavior.
This stirred something like interest in Francis, and he looked at his son.
“Oh?” Francis asked.
“Yes,” Winston said, standing straighter still. “And I do not blame you for going away again.”
“I went nowhere, son,” Francis said, feeling his anger trying to slowly and sleepily rise once more. “I have been right here in this house.”
“Your body has been right here, in this house, in that chair,” Winston continued. “But your mind and your heart have not.”
Francis gaped at his son. It took Francis a moment to place it, but he soon realized that Winston sounded a great deal like Emma at that moment.
Rather than continuing to get angry, however, he felt another wave of immense sadness.
“It is alright, Father,” Winston said, giving his father a small smile. “You do not have to say anything.”
“Oh?” Francis repeated, completely lacking for anything else to say.
“I understand why you went away this time,” Winston continued. “Margaret and Miss Baker explained it to us.”
“And what did they tell you?” Francis asked.
“They said that sometimes, whenever people die or go away, the people who loved them also become sad and go away for a while,” Winston said, seeming proud at his deliverance of the words.
Francis was unsure of what he had expected his son to say, but he was sure that it was not that. Some of the numb agony in his mind began to dissolve and he sat back, silent but regarding his son thoughtfully.
Whatever else Emma was, she had seemingly been good to and done right by the children, and it seemed that she had been a good influence on them regarding their coping with their sadness.
He nodded, but more to himself than to his son. Winston seemed to sense that, and he continued.
“I also wanted to tell you that we still love you very much,” Winston said. For the first time since the boy had walked through the study door, Francis saw tears in his eyes. “And we will wait as long as it takes for you to be our daddy again.”
The realization of what his son had said to him, what his children were saying, hit him like a punch in the gut. For a moment, Francis truly felt as though he could not pull any air into his lungs.
He had been so focused on his feelings and anger about what Emma had done and thus forced him to do that he had allowed himself to completely neglect his children’s feelings. Just the same way that he had after Caroline died.
Only this time, the children were trying to reach out to him and support him in a way that no adult had even bothered. None, that was, except Emma.
The wall he had been building since he had locked himself in his study crumbled, and he leaped from his desk. He crossed the room to his son and enveloped him into a fierce hug. He could feel tears stinging his own eyes, but he did not care.
Thanks to his son, he realized that they would get through this, just as they were beginning to get through Caroline’s death. But only if they did it together, as a family.
“I love you, son,” Francis said, his voice raspy and full of emotion. “I love you both, more than anything. And I promise that I will start being your daddy again.”
Winston pulled away to look at his father, his expression a mix of hope and wariness.
“Really?” Winston asked.
“I promise,” Francis repeated. “In fact, what do you say the three of us go into town tomorrow morning?”
Winston’s face lit up, and he smiled widely.
“Oh, can we?” Winston asked, his tears and uncertainty gone.
“We certainly can,” Francis said, smiling warmly at his son. “Go and tell your sister.”
Winston nodded and rushed from the room. Francis did not close the study door again. He did, however, reclaim his chair. He knew that he had arranged for Grant to return in the morning, but that was one appointment he would not be keeping.
He quickly penned a letter to Grant Brentwood, apologizing for canceling on such notice, giving the excuse that something quite pressing had come up. To Francis, that was entirely true.
His relationship with his children was important, indeed, and certainly more so than a conversation with his oaf of a father-in-law.
On the way into town, he dropped the letter off for Grant Brentwood. He knew it was likely unwise to put off the discussion once more, but he did not care just then.
The looks on the children’s faces on the ride into town was more than enough justification for him to not regret canceling on the elderly earl. Even little Rowena was smiling and giggling, and Francis’s heart swelled with pride.
After dropping off the letter, Francis made himself available to the children’s every whim. He bought them a couple of new toys, took them to lunch, and ended the day with a picnic consisting of some cake the children had picked out at a bakery and a game of tag in the park.
By the end of the day, Francis felt lighter than he had in days, and he found that he was laughing just as much and as happily as the children.
The children were so exhausted that they fell asleep in the carriage on the ride home. The smiles on their faces as they slept resting against each other filled Francis with pride and satisfaction.
He had wanted nothing more than for the children to know that no matter what happened, he would always love them. And judging by the fun they had had and their contented sleeping expressions, they knew exactly that.
He smiled and cast a glance at the sky, knowing that Caroline would be very proud of him. He knew that nothing would make her happier.
Emma would have wanted this, too.
The thought came traitorously unbidden to his mind. He was thankful that the children were sleeping and did not see the sudden darkening of his face.
He stared out the window and rode the rest of the way back to Blackburn Manor in sullen silence.
Chapter 31
When Emma returned to her home, Lydia greeted her at the door. She stepped toward Emma smiling, until she saw Emma’s face.
Lydia’s face fell and she reached out her hands. “Miss Baker,” she breathed. “What has happened?”
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but tears came before words. She succumbed to another bout of sobbing. Lydia closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Emma.
For several moments, Emma cried tears that she had felt sure had dried up. Now, in the safety and comfort of her own home, she struggled to suppress an urge to scream.
The events of the day had been unfair, to say the least. She had not even had the time to figure out how to handle the situation with Lucius, or how she would be able to take care of Marcus now.
Once the tears had subsided, Lydia led her into the drawing room. Once she helped Emma get seated, she gave her a small smile and gestured that she would be back.
When she returned, she had two glasses and a bottle of wine on a tray. She placed the tray on the small table and poured wine in both glasses.
“If you are feeling better after some of this,” Lydia said, handing Emma a glass, “then I will fetch us some cakes.”
Emma smiled, her first genuine smile that day.
“Thank you, Lydia,” Emma said.
“Nonsense,” Lydia said, waving her hand gently. “Now, tell me, what happened?”
Emma took a long sip of her wine, closing her eyes and enjoying the flavor. She inhaled deeply and tried to focus on doing more talking and less crying.
As best she could, she recounted everything, from Lucius’s deception and the discovery of the ships he had hidden from her, to his plot to blackmail her into stealing from Francis, to, finally, Francis’s brutish confrontation and stinging accusations.
Lydia listened intently, patting Emma’s hand gently whenever her voice became thick wi
th emotion again, letting Emma speak until she was too exhausted and her throat too sore to continue.
Lydia was silent for a moment, refilling their wine glasses. Emma was shocked to see that she had already drunk so much of it, but she could not bring herself to regret it.
She was at last beginning to feel a bit better, and with luck, the wine would help her sleep.
“Well,” Lydia said once the glasses were once again full. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but that Lord Ashfield does sound like quite the ogre.”