Hunter laughed, and Emmeline was pleased to find him so amused in her self-deprecating admission.
“So, how do you choose to amuse yourself when you are sitting at rest, and your mother and sister are skilfully occupied in the creative arts?” Hunter smiled in an easy fashion, sitting back into his chair also, almost mirroring her position.
“I must own up to being a great reader, I am afraid. I spend almost all my rest time absorbed in some book or other. Sometimes poetry.” Emmeline thought it best to be entirely honest.
After all, they had decided to get to know one another properly, and she ought not to hide her voracious reading only to have to spend the next forty or so years hiding her fondness for the pastime.
“There is nothing wrong in that at all. I am a keen reader myself, and I must admit to being pleased to hear we have that in common.”
“Are you engrossed in anything in particular at the moment, Hunter?”
“Deeply engrossed.” He smiled happily as if keen to open up such a conversation between them. “I am reading Sir Walter Scott currently. Ivanhoe, to be precise.”
“And are you enjoying it?”
“Very much. I am but pages from the end.”
“Then I shall not speak too much of it and ruin it for you.” Emmeline laughed lightly.
“You have read it?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes, it is loosely a romance after all.”
“Yes, it is. Although it is the sort of romance which would more likely keep a young man entertained.” He was sitting up straight again, his interest clear. “How did you like the more adventurous side of things?”
“Very much indeed. The tournament and the Crusades, not to mention the capture and the rescue. Oh, but I must not say too much. If I become intent on the telling of it, I shall certainly ruin it for you.”
“I must say, you have surprised me. Pleasantly so.”
“You thought I would like the simpler, more straightforward romance style, or even classical?”
“I suppose I did. Most young ladies who read seem to.”
“Well, I do like all manner of tales, and romance would be chief among them. Even in Ivanhoe, the romance is well done. There is no transaction to it all if that makes any sense at all.”
“It makes perfect sense, Miss … Emmeline. I think that is perhaps the enchantment of the modern romance novel. The idea that romance really does exist in a time when most marriages, of the upper classes, at least are, as you say, transactional.”
They both fell silent for a moment, and Emmeline wondered if Hunter was thinking as she was of their own arrangement. Surely their marriage, if it did go ahead, would be the perfect example of all that the modern romance novel sought to buck against.
For a few moments, she wondered at her own penchant for the form; the idea that people only married for love and that they were almost always suited in every feasible respect. They were attracted for looks alone, in the beginning, then found themselves in sympathy on almost every point which rose up between them. Was that what Emmeline had always hoped for, yearned for, even? And had she really had such a match when she had thought herself almost engaged to Christopher Lennox? When she thought of him, Emmeline was not sure she felt the same weight of the betrayal which seemed to have held her down for so many weeks. Something was changing, but she did not yet know what.
“I suppose there is also the idea that the form of Romanticism deals with all manner of emotions largely ignored in life and literature. The less pleasant as well as the sought after.” He spoke in a hurry as if keen to get them both talking again.
“Yes, emotions of horror and anxiety. Things which seem somehow to revolt against the normal.” She paused for a moment, pleased to have another rich seam to explore conversationally. “It is almost turning one’s back on the current mode of manners and etiquette, to explore what is less seemly and appealing, the things which society would like to keep secret from one another. Horror would certainly be a fine example.” She had become more animated, sitting forward in her seat also, looking into his gold-flecked eyes as she spoke. “Mary Shelley’s book would be a very good example of the form. Veering away a little from romance, of course.”
“Frankenstein?” Hunter said, also gripped by the turn their conversation had taken. “You have read that also?”
“Indeed, I have. Have you?”
“Twice. I was utterly gripped by it, although naturally more upon the first reading.”
“My mother was terribly worried about it all. Lady Harbury had read it and told her of all the terrors within. The dear lady had proclaimed that she had not had sleep nor had a moment’s peace for a full sennight after reading it!” Emmeline was highly amused, as was Hunter, who boomed with laughter.
“Good heavens!” he said, still laughing heartily.
“Mama was convinced I would be much changed if I read it. It occupied her and worried her for days.”
“But you emerged from the experience unscathed, I have no doubt.” He was smiling and, for a moment, she almost forgot their joint determination for a loveless marriage.
“Indeed, I did. Although I shall not pretend I was not afraid at times.” She smiled conspiratorially. “But I must also admit to that sort of fear being a most exciting thing. The sort of thing which makes one feel suddenly very alive.”
“I could not agree more.” Hunter was thoughtful. “And I think that particular book found a common, almost unseen thread, whereby society at large seems to have a fear of progress. I speak of scientific and mechanical progress, of course. It was very well observed and neatly re-told, that particular fear because it is one which people would hardly know they had until they confronted it in some way.”
“That was something I had not considered. But it is true, of course.” Emmeline was enthralled, finding herself quite at home on the sunlit terrace of Addison Hall.
She had never had somebody with whom to dissect literature, specific texts, in any way. In truth, she had not found many other readers who had chosen the books that she had chosen. Clara, the person with whom she had spent a good deal of her time, had never been particularly fond of reading, save for some of the more obvious romantic works; the ones where a happy ending was not only assured but a little too easily won.
Clara Lovett had liked stories which were simple and without struggle. Emmeline wondered how on earth the young woman had gone on to make her own romantic life so very complicated and such a subject of gossip when she had betrayed her oldest friend in such a way.
The rest of the afternoon had passed in lively discussion of literature and art. They had begun to talk about stage plays when her mother and Rose returned from the lake for afternoon tea.
“Well, what a wonderful afternoon we are having down at the lake,” her mother said when they were all seated, and the tea, sandwiches, and cakes had been laid out.
“I am glad to hear it, Mrs Fitzgerald.” Hunter seemed more relaxed than ever, and Emmeline watched as her mother regarded him with secret interest.
“And you both seem most entertained.” Emmeline almost laughed as her mother expertly began to search for information.
“Indeed, we have been, Mrs Fitzgerald,” Hunter continued enthusiastically. “We have discovered a shared fondness for reading and have spent a very fine afternoon discussing the books we have read in common. It has been truly enlightening.” He looked significantly at Emmeline, and she felt a little warmth in her cheeks.
“You are a great reader yourself, Lord Addison?”
“I should like to think so. Although I think I am perhaps just a little behind Emmeline.” Emmeline saw her mother’s face break into a broad smile as the Earl called her by her Christian name.
No doubt her dear mother thought it all much more significant than it truly was. Assuming, of course, that the idea was as insignificant as Emmeline had believed it to be.
“Perhaps not. We have read many of the same volumes after all, have we not?” She returne
d his smile but found herself suddenly a little too awkward to look so directly into his eyes as she was previously comfortable with.
“Yes, my favourite, of course, being Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.” Hunter caught her eye as her mother shuddered involuntarily.
There passed a great look of amusement between them, and Emmeline enjoyed the idea that it had been by Hunter’s design. He had wanted to share a secret moment of amusement and, although it was somewhat at her mother’s expense, it was gentle and amusing nonetheless.
“Oh, that book,” Constance Fitzgerald spoke almost reflexively. “My poor dear Lady Harbury.” She shook her head in quiet despair as if all present would instantly know how her dear friend had suffered upon reading the frightening story.
This time, it was Emmeline who cast a secret, amused look at Hunter, who was all too ready to acknowledge it.
The day had been, as far as Emmeline was concerned, a great success. She had enjoyed the time that she and Hunter Bentley had spent together and felt sure that the two of them could manage to be married in a most contented sort of a fashion. Perhaps they might even be more than content.
However, as soon as the thought occurred to her, Emmeline chased it away. To harbour such ideas was far from healthy and could only lead her along the old path she had once walked down; the path to the deepest sorrow.
Chapter 15
“So, this is where you hide yourself, Emmeline.” Kent Fitzgerald’s voice startled her.
Emmeline had not expected Kent to return to Tarlton Manor so soon, for it was only a matter of days since he had last returned to the Midlands. Surely, he could only have been in his own home for a day and a half before returning to Emmeline’s home. Emmeline’s home for the present, at any rate.
“I am not hiding, Sir,” Emmeline said a little waspishly, her voice defiantly trying to hide a sudden stab of fear.
Emmeline was at the very far end of their grounds, some distance away from the beautiful rose bushes she had shown Hunter on the day that he had made his curious proposal. She had been looking for some peace and quiet and had gone to her favourite place. Not just her favourite place in the garden, her favourite place in the world. It was a tiny area of flagstones with an old wooden bench upon it which was tucked away on the edge of their grounds. It was a secluded, private place, shielded from the world by thick box hedging and tall trellises covered in clematis and passionflower. The gardener always set out a few pots of flowers in the little space, silently acknowledging that he knew it was well used. But it was only used by Emmeline.
“But nobody from the outside can see you, so I would say again that you are hiding.” He smiled at her, but it was not in the attempt at friendliness that he had customarily used.
This was a different smile altogether, almost the cruel grin of a cat knowing that it had a mouse cornered. It seemed to Emmeline that her cousin had become less and less attractive as time had gone on.
He still had that bland handsomeness, his face pleasing only because it was a symmetrical, featureless landscape. But it was pleasing in a very general way, pleasing to all but attractive to none. He was certainly not attractive to Emmeline, quite the contrary. Ever since he had sat inappropriately close to her during the afternoon of bridge at Croston Hall, Emmeline had been repulsed by him.
Time and time again, she had gone over his words and tried to excuse him. Although he had said nothing which she could use to make an accusation, it was the manner of his speech which had been so unsettling. Without saying it, he had made it very clear that he had an interest in her and, furthermore, that he was choosing to make some progress with that interest.
The very idea of it sickened her, and there had been times when she had wished that their period of grace would come to an end, that they would walk away from Tarlton Manor and that dreadful relation and away into a new life. Of course, such feelings were only fleeting and, when she thought about it rationally, the idea of leaving Tarlton still broke her heart.
“Finding a little peace and quiet in which to read and hiding are two different things. Still, if you yourself would care to use this space, I shall let you have it.” Emmeline began to rise and reached out to pick up the book she had laid on the bench when Kent had arrived.
Before she had laid her hand on the book, Kent Fitzgerald had snatched it up and was studying its front cover.
“Walter Scott,” he said to himself as he read the front. “I am not so sure that this is such a suitable choice for a young lady.”
When Emmeline had returned from Addison Hall some days before, she had immediately gone through her books and plucked out Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott to read once more. Although she knew the story well, something about her conversation with Hunter Bentley had compelled her to look at it again, to read through every passage with fresh eyes, thinking of his observations and seeing where they fit.
“I do not see how it is an unsuitable book,” Emmeline spoke with confidence, although she was careful not to antagonize him.
“It is not simple romance, is it? I am led to believe that the romance is tucked away behind great historical themes, themes which would be traditionally associated with the masculine.”
“You are led to believe?” she said slowly. “Then am I to take it, Sir, that you have not read the volume yourself?”
“No, I have not read it. I am a very busy man, and I have little time for such diversions.” He spoke angrily, much as one who had been caught out in something. Like a child who had been found out and could only be angry in response.
“Then I cannot see how you can claim it to be unsuitable. I have found it the most enlightening book, with adventure, yes, and romance. I found nothing unsuitable in it, I assure you.” Emmeline was careful not to defend her reading of the book.
It was true that there was nothing unsuitable in it, nothing at all. The very fact that her cousin could have said such a thing made it clear that he had never read it. But she would not defend herself; she would not apologize. What Emmeline chose to read was her affair and hers alone. Kent Fitzgerald had already given her the idea that he was, perhaps, a man who liked to control people. At the afternoon of bridge, she had sensed that feeling most keenly.
“I cannot think historical themes and adventure appropriate,” he snapped.
“Cousin, you speak as if you had some control over what it is that I read. Whilst you are set to inherit this house, whatever I might think of it, you do not inherit me also. You will have control of this house and nothing else. And only then when the period of the grace is at an end and you become the master of this house. But by then, we shall be gone, and it will be of little matter to me what you choose to do and control.”
“My dear cousin,” he began and paused for a moment to compose himself. Emmeline knew that she had seen a flash of vile anger in his eyes, and she had thought, for an awful moment, that he might strike her. “My dear cousin, I sought only to offer an opinion on the matter and nothing more. If you have taken it to mean something else, if you have misconstrued my intentions as an instruction, then please do allow me to apologize for my lack of clarity.” He gave a little bow that she was not convinced by.
“I daresay life is full of misconstrued intentions,” Emmeline said ambiguously and smiled. “Still, if you would excuse me.”
This time, Emmeline rose fully to her feet and held out her hand to take the book from him. However, he did not hand her the book but merely turned it over and over in his hand, not looking up at her. Emmeline did not want to leave without the book, nor did she want to spend any longer in his company than she had already.
“If you would not mind, Sir, I should like my book …”
“I believe you have spent some time at Addison Hall with the Earl in the last days,” he spoke quietly, almost in a manner which might have seemed to others conversational.
To Emmeline, however, it was anything but. She could hear not only the inquiry in his tone but also the accusation.
“I
had been invited to Addison Hall it is true, along with my mother and sister,” she spoke flatly, glaring at him.
“But it was not for a simple afternoon tea, I am led to believe. It was all day long, was it not?”
“If I might ask, who exactly mentioned it to you?” She shrugged and tried to look unaffected by it all, despite her feelings of anger and concern. “I can hardly think that you would be interested in such things.”
“Your mother mentioned it, Emmeline. She no doubt had not realized that it was a secret.”
“And it is not a secret, Cousin. There is no need for it to be a secret.”
“Then why, might I ask, are you so guarded about it all?”
“I do not choose to speak about every aspect of my life. That does not make me secretive, Sir, just private.”
“But I do not understand why you would need to keep anything private from me.”
“We are not as well acquainted as your manner towards me would sometimes suggest. I realize that we are second cousins, but we are still newly acquainted. We do not have that closeness that families have when they have grown up in proximity, do you not think that is true?”
“But you must know that I do not enquire simply as a concerned family member.”
“I am afraid that I do not understand,” Emmeline said, feeling certain that she did understand.
Above all things, she hoped he was not about to make some declaration or other. She hoped that her conversation and her argumentative stance had not brought him to this point, the point at which she could avoid the issue no longer.
“You must have noted my regard of you these last weeks.” He gave her a wide smile, his bland face suddenly busy with excitement.
“I have noted nothing but our early acquaintanceship.”
“Even at Croston Hall?” He held out his hand towards the bench she had just vacated, indicating that she ought to sit again. “Please, do sit down for a moment.”
A Bride for the Betrayed Earl Page 11