The melody was not what Emily had expected to hear from Blackheath's pitied spinster; she had thought that Miss Bingham might wish to teach her gentle notes, that sounded like raindrops, but the sound that issued forth from the piano was anything but gentle. It was dark, it was angry, it was wild—and Emily was entranced.
"Mozart's Fifth," Miss Bingham said cheerfully, once her fingers had stilled, "Well a portion of it, at least."
"How did you learn to play like that?" Emily asked in wonder, taking a seat beside Miss Bingham on the low stool.
"When I was a girl, I longed to learn the cello," Miss Bingham replied, "Though my mother thought it an unsightly instrument for a lady to play, for one must straddle it with one's legs."
Emily gave a titter of appreciation at Miss Bingham's faux-scandalised tone.
"And so, I was permitted to learn a more ladylike instrument," Miss Bingham continued, her voice distant as she reflected upon the past, "One that allowed a woman to show off both her graceful posture and her fine clothes whilst she played."
"Oh," Emily felt herself deflate at this piece of information; the pianoforte rather lost its lustre at this news that it was considered appropriate.
"Though I am grateful," Miss Bingham continued, shuffling the pages of music before her, "There is no instrument quite as powerful as the piano—and if that is all that a woman is permitted to play, then she has an obligation to make herself a master of it."
"Are you—?" Emily hesitated momentarily, as Miss Bingham's dark eyes met her own, "Are you a Bluestocking?"
The word hung in the air for a moment. Emily's mother had always whispered that word, as though it were a terrible thing, and for a moment Emily wished that she could take it back.
"Of course, I am," Miss Bingham gave a delighted laugh, "I am the bluest of the blue—and proud of it. Come, my lady; you will never become a musical genius unless we get started."
And so, Emily finally found something to which she could apply herself, and under the tutelage of Miss Bingham, she finally became accomplished.
"Imagine the musicales we may host in town," Lady Fairfax said one afternoon a few years later, with misty eyes, as she listened to Emily play, "There's not a man alive who would not want to make you his wife after hearing you play."
"Wife?" Emily stuttered; at sixteen she knew she would make her debut in the spring—but why on earth was her mother discussing marriage?
"Yes," Lady Fairfax seemed oblivious to Emily's distress, "You are quite right. We will not settle for being a mere wife—you, my dear, shall be a duchess."
A duchess?
Emily had known that her mother had ambitions for her to marry, but what had once been a vague, distant idea soon became a fixation for Lady Fairfax. As the start of the season—her first—neared, Lady Fairfax sat her down with a copy of Debretts' Peerage and detailed to Emily just which men she deemed to be husband material.
"We'll start at the top," Lady Fairfax had said, her mouth a determined line, "There are two ducal seats which are in need of a duchess—Belmont and Hemsworth. Now the former is my preferred choice—I know that Belmont has a reputation as cold and high-handed, but he is far preferable to Hemsworth."
"Why so?"
Despite herself, Emily was curious as to why her mother was so set against the Duke of Hemsworth.
"Hemsworth is a rake," Lady Fairfax gave a sniff of disapproval, "And a charming one at that. There would be no happiness with a man like he; Belmont would be better."
The sarcastic reply that had formed on Emily's lips, died as her mother reached over to stroke her hair affectionately.
"Oh, my dear," Lady Fairfax said with a soft smile, "I can't tell you how excited I am for all of this. I waited so long for a daughter to share these things with—you've made me so happy."
Emily swallowed her annoyance and offered her mother a wan smile. She knew that she was lucky to have a mother who loved her so, but sometimes she felt suffocated by it. It was as though she were trapped in a cage; a golden one, with everything she ever needed there for her to take...but nothing that she wanted.
Before she knew it, the season was upon her, and she was bidding farewell to Miss Bingham and Blackheath. Lady Fairfax had insisted that her husband spare no expense in launching Emily into society, and so every night she had a new dress, for whatever outing her mother had planned.
An introduction to the Duke of Belmont was arranged, and Lady Fairfax was near beside herself as she watched her daughter dance with the haughty peer in Lady Jersey's ballroom.
"Everything is going just as I had planned," she had whispered to Emily, after the duke had returned her following a second dance—which was much commented upon, for Belmont rarely deigned to dance with anyone, let alone twice. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"Wonderful," Emily replied, quietly echoing her mother, for she could find no words of her own. Inside she despaired, for if her mother had her way, Emily would be engaged by the end of the season.
I wish, she had thought, balling her hands into fists, I wish something would happen to stop all this. She did not want to be in London viewing complete strangers as objective husbands, she wanted to be in Blackheath, playing her piano, or reading by the fire.
Let something happen, Emily prayed, anything.
And something did.
"Lady Emily, you must wake."
The next morning, as pale light streamed through the window, Emily was awoken by a persistent voice and a hand upon her shoulder.
"It is your mother, my lady," Sally, the chambermaid, said once Emily had opened her eyes, "She has taken a turn in the night. Your father has bid you to come quickly."
With bleary eyes and still dressed in her night gown, Emily had rushed to her mother's bedchamber. When she got there, she found her lying in the large bed, propped up slightly with pillows, her face paralysed into a drooping smile.
"The doctor says it was an apoplectic fit," Lord Fairfax whispered from his place by the bedside, "Quite a serious one. Your mother cannot move, nor does she seem able to speak or even understand me."
"No," Emily shook her head in horror. How could it be? Just yesterday Lady Fairfax had been in the full bloom of her health, and now she was as silent and unmoving as a statue. Emily's breath caught in her throat as she remembered her wish from the previous night—how could she have been so selfish? She would endure marriage to any man, if it meant that her mother would return to full health.
"I'm afraid that the prognosis is not good," Lord Fairfax said, interrupting her thoughts, "I have sent for the boys. Pray, get dressed, Emily, then come back and sit with us."
With the weight of guilt pressing down upon her, Emily quickly rushed to do as she was told. For a day and a night, the four Fairfax siblings sat at their mother's bedside, until God saw fit to call her home.
The months that followed were a blur; Emily and her father retired to Blackheath, to mourn Lady Fairfax away from the bustle of London. Father and daughter floated about the large house in silence, like a pair of bombazine clad ghosts. Emily's only company was Miss Bingham, who told her that her playing had acquired a new depth.
'Tis guilt, Emily thought with despair, as her fingers played out a requiem upon the keys.
A new season came and went, without either Emily or her father mentioning a trip to London. It seemed that Emily's wish to remain in Blackheath was to be fulfilled—though there was not a day that she did not curse herself for making it.
Life had become a dark, dreary affair for both Emily and her father, and it seemed that they would spend the rest of their lives ensconced in Blackheath, until they received a rather unexpected arrival.
"Emily!"
Lord Fairfax's voice, sounding rather distressed, echoed throughout the house. Emily, who had been reading in the library, sprang from her chair at the sound of it.
"Your aunt," Lord Fairfax said, his face perplexed, "Has sent you a present."
"A present?" Emily echoed stupidly.
"I'm not sure that I'd call myself a present," a quick, cheerful voice called, as a plump woman stepped out from behind Lord Fairfax, "Though Lady Lucan once deemed me a diamond of the first water, on account of the fact that I was the only woman outside of the Pale, able to dress her hair the way she liked."
"Er," Emily blinked, unsure of how to respond to this information, which was delivered in a fast but lilting brogue.
"She wished to visit herself, of course," the woman continued, with a smile, "But she was required to remain with Lord Lucan in Ireland, so she sent me in her stead."
"And who are you?" Emily stuttered, still not entirely certain of who or what this woman was.
"Mary Murphy," the plump woman gave a curtsy, "Lady's Maid."
Emily blinked again; she did not need a lady's maid. One of the chamber maids had been acting in that capacity since her return to Blackheath; there was little work involved, given that neither Emily or her father had the energy to stand on ceremony and change for dinner. Actually, she thought with a pang of guilt, they rarely ate dinner these days.
"Now," Mary said, skittering across the floor to where a portrait of Lord and Lady Fairfax hung, "This must be the late Lady Fairfax. I must not gossip, my lord, but it might please you to know that Lady Lucan was tremendously jealous of the life her sister led."
"She was?" Lord Fairfax asked curiously.
"Oh, yes, my lord," Mary gave Lord Fairfax a conspiratorial look, "Lady Lucan used always say that she wished she had married as well as her sister. She said that you knew how to care for a lady—and that you would never dream of dragging her to a backwater like Ireland."
"Did she?"
To Emily's surprise, the tips of her father's ears went red with pleasure. It was the first time in months that Emily had seen him express any emotion that wasn't despair.
"Oh, aye," Mary nodded, "'Tis a terrible thing that she left you too early, but Lady Lucan told me your eldest son will soon marry—so perhaps the joy of grandchildren will distract you from your grief."
"Yes," Lord Fairfax blinked, "I had not thought of grandchildren. Goodness, that would be a nice distraction."
"And when Lady Emily marries you'll have even more," Mary said cheerfully, with a broad smile to Emily.
Just the very idea of grandchildren seemed to ignite a fire within Lord Fairfax. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his balding pate.
"We shall have to away to town at once," he said, more to himself than his audience, "And have Emily attend every ball. Her mother wanted her to be a duchess—we must make haste."
"And indeed we shall, my lord," Mary replied, "Though perhaps it's best that we wait until the season starts? I don't know much of London, but I hear it's rather empty in August."
"Oh," Lord Fairfax deflated somewhat, "Of course. Still, we shall have time to plan our attack."
And so, as summer drew into autumn and then winter, Lord Fairfax made plans on just how he could honour his wife's last wish, and make their daughter a duchess.
With Mary's cheerful presence, Blackheath was brought back to normality, and the aching grief that had filled Emily abated somewhat. The guilt, however, was not so quick to leave her, and despite the rising anxiety at her father's plan to marry her to the first duke he could find, Emily remained silent.
The new season began in earnest in late February, and Emily had attended but one ball, when her father came to her.
"I have found you a duke," he said with the excitement of a child who had found a penny upon the ground.
"Already?"
"Yes," Lord Fairfax's face broke into a smile, as he mistook Emily's tone of horror for awe, "The Duke of Kilbride had made it known that he was seeking a bride. I made overtures and after seeing you last night, he is most keen to meet you."
"He is?" Emily cast her mind back on the previous evening's ball, which had been a crowded affair in Lady Jersey's. She could not remember having seen the duke, which told her nothing—except, perhaps, that her future husband was unremarkable.
"'Tis a good thing child, that you cannot remember him, " Mary had said pragmatically, when Emily had told her this, "It means he is perfectly nondescript—you'd not have forgotten him if he had a face full of boils, or a lazy eye."
Emily could not argue with that reasoning, in fact she could not find it within herself to argue with anything. It felt to her that life had taught her a lesson the last time she had so vehemently opposed the idea of marriage; better to be grateful that her cage was golden, rather than being ungrateful and filled with regret.
And so, on a dry, February afternoon, Emily found herself traipsing along the paths of the Green Park beside the Duke of Kilbride, as her brother Theodore and his new wife trailed them at a slight distance.
Their promenade was a silent one, for the duke seemed disinclined toward chat of any kind. He was a handsome man, even Emily could admit that, but his eyes were hard and his expression cold. He gave the appearance of a man who was rigidly controlled in every aspect of his life.
"Well," Kilbride said, once they had reached the fountain at the far side of the park, "Am I to take it you find me tolerable enough?"
The bluntness of the question took Emily by surprise, so much so, that her own reservations at speaking openly were cast aside.
"What is it that you like so much about me, your Grace?" she asked, perplexed that a man who had spoken just a dozen words to her wanted her as his wife.
"You have three brothers," Kilbride replied in clipped tones, "It augurs well—does it not?"
"I suppose," Emily said dubiously, "If your Grace is seeking companions for sports or hunting, my brothers will happily oblige."
Her suggestion was met with by a strangled laugh from Kilbride.
"Forgive me," he said, his blue eyes not meeting hers, "I meant that it bodes well for me securing an heir—for which you will be richly rewarded, I might add."
An heir? Emily hoped that the horror she felt was not showing upon her face. How was she expected to produce a child with this man, when they could barely even hold a conversation?
"I am quite eager to make this official," Kilbride continued, as Theodore and Beatrice rounded a corner and came into view, "As is your father. Am I to assume you consent?"
"Er," Emily stuttered, unable to form the word yes.
"Excellent."
As well as being a woeful conversationalist, it appeared that Kilbride was also a terrible listener, and once Beatrice and Theodore caught up with them, Kilbride announced the engagement.
"I would prefer a long engagement," Emily stated quickly, when Beatrice enquired as to when they would be wed. From the dark look of displeasure on the duke's face, Emily could see that this was not what he had envisaged, but she held firm.
For the next few weeks, Kilbride performed only the most perfunctory duties expected of him, and during each encounter with the cold, aloof duke, Emily found her despair growing. Any time she tried to tentatively broach her objection to the union with her father, Lord Fairfax became misty eyed at having fulfilled his wife's final wish, and a guilt-ridden Emily gave up.
The only silver lining to the whole affair, was the introduction of Kilbride's niece, Lady Georgiana; the gregarious young woman often enlivened Kilbride's dreadful morning calls, with chatter about the latest novels and scandals.
On that particular afternoon, Georgiana had accompanied Kilbride on a quick call to the Fairfax's London residence in Grosvenor Square. The pair, Georgiana told her cheerfully, had spent the morning in the reading room of Mr Hobbs' Circulating Library.
Emily gave a start at the name; Hobbs' was the same library for which her father had purchased her a subscription, all those years ago. Emily herself had never visited; she had sent her requests for novels by post, or with the footman, if she was in town.
"I requested they keep a copy of Miss Edgeworth's newest aside for you," Georgiana continued, "It's ever so good."
"Why, thank you," Emily repl
ied, touched that the young girl had thought of her at all, "I will endeavour to collect it this afternoon."
The afternoon slipped away quite quickly, however, and it was only as darkness descended, that Emily remembered the book.
"Gemini," she whispered in annoyance; she did not fancy the idea of an evening with nothing to read. A heavy tattoo of rain was beating down outside the window, but on impulse Emily decided that this would not deter her.
"Mary," she called, as she rushed to fetch her bonnet and pelisse, "We're going out."
There was much grumbling from the Irish woman at being dragged out into the rain, but Emily ignored her. The Fairfax carriage moved quickly through the streets of London, which were quieter than usual due to the inclement weather.
It was only when Emily stepped out of the carriage, and was nearly blown over by a gust of wind, did she understand why there was so few people out and about.
"Oh, dear, Mary," she said, as she pushed open the door of Mr Hobbs' and entered the mercifully warm shop, "I did not realise it was so bad when we set out. You must think me most silly for dragging you out in a gale."
"Not at all, my Lady," Mary replied, in a tone that let Emily know that silly was exactly what she thought her mistress to be.
Emily stifled a smile and allowed herself a moment to look around the library which had furnished her so well with reading materials. The main room contained a large counter, behind which Emily could see rows upon rows of shelves, simply stuffed with books of all shapes and sizes. To the left, was an open door, which Emily presumed must lead to the reading room. She rather wished that she had arrived earlier, so that she could have had a chance to sit down and peruse the many novels upon the shelves.
Her wishful thinking was interrupted, by the sound of footsteps, and a sweet voice calling out, "How may I be of assistance?"
Emily turned her head to the counter and was just about to reply, until she caught sight of the person who had spoken.
The Duke's Governess in Disguise Page 2