Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Except Papa. He smiled down at Mrs. Graham, and Emma’s stomach twisted.

  No. He was just being polite. He would not bring that woman into the family. He couldn’t.

  “Reverend Peterson, just the man I was looking for,” Charles said. “And Mrs. Graham. Welcome to Knightsdale. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your escort for a moment? I have a small matter to discuss with him.”

  “Of course not, my lord.” Mrs. Graham smiled at Charles. At least she didn’t bat her eyelashes at him.

  “Splendid. Lambert,” Charles said to the butler, who was hovering in the background, “will you show Mrs. Graham to the blue drawing room?” He smiled back at Mrs. Graham. “We really will be only a few moments, ma’am.”

  “Please take your time, my lord. I’m in no hurry.” Mrs. Graham looked at Emma. Emma ground her teeth. “Would you care to join me, Emma?”

  “No.”

  Emma saw Charles stiffen. Her father frowned. Perhaps she had been a bit abrupt.

  “No, thank you. I’m a trifle fatigued.” Was she using Lady Caroline’s excuse? Lud! She couldn’t sink that low. “That is, um…”

  “That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Graham said. “I shall do fine by myself.”

  “I believe Lady Beatrice is in the drawing room with a few of the older ladies, ma’am,” Mr. Lambert said.

  Charles frowned. “A few of the older ladies, Lambert? You don’t mean the Society, do you?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Mr. Lambert cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of securing the brandy, however.”

  “Well done.”

  Emma glanced at her father and saw the reproachful look in his eyes. She struggled with her conscience. She was Papa’s daughter—her conscience won.

  “I suppose I can stay downstairs a few minutes longer and keep Mrs. Graham company. If you’ll excuse me, Papa? My lord?”

  Emma focused on her father’s grateful smile as she followed Mrs. Graham to the blue drawing room.

  “May I offer you some brandy, vicar?” Charles showed Reverend Peterson into his study.

  “Do I need it, my lord?”

  Charles grinned. “I hope not.”

  “Then, thank you, I will have a glass.”

  Charles handed Emma’s father the brandy and gestured for him to take a seat. Charles stood by the fireplace. Sudden nerves made sitting impossible.

  He had not expected to be nervous.

  The vicar sipped his drink. Charles felt his eyes studying him.

  “I am not going to quiz you on declensions or conjugations, Lord Knightsdale, nor ask you to translate Caesar.”

  Charles laughed. “No—and a good thing, too. I don’t know that I would acquit myself well.”

  “Nonsense. You were an excellent scholar—when you wanted to be. I understand you did very well at university.”

  Charles shrugged. He did not mean to be speaking of Latin. He meant to be speaking of Emma.

  “Sir, the reason I asked to speak with you…Well, I should like to…” Charles cleared his throat and started again. “I would like your permission to…”

  “Yes? Just say it, boy. It can’t be that bad.”

  “I would like to marry your daughter, sir.”

  Reverend Peterson sat still, an arrested expression on his face. “Emma?”

  “Of course, Emma. Meg is much too young.”

  “Well, she’s not really, but I agree, Emma would be a better choice for you. Meg is not interested in any man as far as I can tell. Emma is, if she will only let herself admit it.”

  “So I have your permission to pay my addresses?”

  “Indeed. Though it will be Emma’s choice, of course.”

  “Of course. And I am not ready to ask her yet.”

  “Afraid she’ll refuse?”

  Charles laughed. “Well, to tell the truth, she has refused, but with time, I think I can bring her about.”

  Reverend Peterson nodded. “She’s worshiped you for years, you know.”

  “Well, yes, I did know—though I’ll tell you she’s not acting so worshipful at the moment.”

  Reverend Peterson sighed. “Emma is not very happy at the moment, Lord Knightsdale, and I fear it is my fault.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  It was the vicar’s turn to look uncomfortable. He took a large swallow of brandy.

  “You know my wife died within a year of Meg’s birth. It was a hard labor, and Catherine never completely recovered. I was devastated, as was Emma, of course. She was only nine years old, but she stepped into her mother’s shoes. Took charge of Meg and the household. I should never have let her, but it seemed a good thing at the time. It gave her something to do, a purpose, if you will. And I…”

  The vicar closed his eyes, his mouth tightening as if a spasm of pain had flashed through him.

  “Sir, you don’t need to—”

  Reverend Peterson held up his hand. “No, my lord, I do.” He sighed and put his glass on the table by his chair. He clasped his hands, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. “I had no interest in taking another wife. Emma kept things running smoothly. I could lose myself in my research, my ancient Greek and Latin texts. I was happy—I thought. And I thought Emma and Meg were happy, too.”

  “I’m certain they were.”

  “Perhaps. But life goes on. Things change. Not very profound, I know, but very true. Harriet moved to the village after her husband died—she inherited a small cottage here—and when I saw her after services for the first time…well, feelings I thought long dead were resurrected. She volunteered to help with the church—not to be forward, you understand, but because she truly enjoys working with flowers and altar cloths and such. She had been very active at her old church, and she found the activity comforting. We became friends—and then our friendship deepened.”

  “I understand, sir. You needn’t go into details that you would rather not.”

  The vicar laughed, flushing slightly. “Oh, never fear, I won’t.” He shook his head. “We have kept to the church teachings—barely. And it is getting harder every day. I’m sure you understand.”

  Charles grinned. “I believe I do.”

  The vicar grinned back. “So you don’t think I’m too old to…no, never mind. The point is, I want to marry Harriet—and she wants to marry me. But I know Emma does not like it. I feel I would be betraying her.”

  “Well, I do have to say she doesn’t overly care for Mrs. Graham.”

  The vicar snorted. “That’s an understatement.” He ran his hand through his graying hair. “Harriet and I have discussed it, and we really don’t understand her reaction. Harriet is as certain as she can be that she never did anything to insult or hurt Emma. In fact, they were friendly—until my interest became apparent.”

  “How does Meg feel about your marriage? Does she know that you want to wed?”

  “Oh, yes. Meg is very different from Emma—well, Meg didn’t have to take on all the responsibilities that Emma did. I think Meg doesn’t much care, as long as our marriage won’t affect her ability to dig in the mud. She’s a lot like me in that regard, only my passion is the classics—hers is plants.”

  Reverend Peterson shifted in his chair. “I’ve often thought…That is, I think…Well…” Emma’s father raised his eyes to stare directly into Charles’s. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, young man. I am not advocating you take any liberties with my daughter whatsoever. But I have begun to think that if Emma had more of an idea of what love between a man and a woman was, she might understand my feelings. If she had experienced an…attraction…for a man, perhaps she would understand how marriage is more than…Well, maybe she would understand something about married love. How the love Harriet and I have for each other doesn’t threaten the love I have for her and her sister. That I am not betraying her mother or denigrating her efforts all these years. That she will always have a place in my heart as my daughter—she does not need to continue to run my household.”

 
; Charles sat down across from the vicar. “Has Emma never had a beau, then?”

  “No. I did not lie when I said she worshiped you.” The vicar sighed. “Looking back, I should have insisted she have a Season. One of my sisters would gladly have sponsored her. But Emma didn’t want to leave Meg—and I didn’t want my comfortable routine altered.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “I am paying for my selfishness now.”

  “Now, sir, no self-recriminations, please. I consider you did me a favor, little as we both realized it. I believe Emma and I will suit admirably.” Charles grinned. “I just have to convince her of that.”

  There was really no need for her to be here, Emma thought as Mr. Lambert opened the door to the blue drawing room and she followed Mrs. Graham inside. She would have realized that as soon as Mr. Lambert had said the Society was here, if she had not let guilt cloud her thinking.

  “Harriet!” Mrs. Begley raised her teacup as Emma and Mrs. Graham entered the room. “And Miss Peterson. How lovely. Lady Beatrice, have you met Mrs. Graham?”

  Emma surveyed the room as Mrs. Begley made the introductions. Mr. Lambert said he had secreted the brandy, but the ladies were looking suspiciously bright-eyed. The Farthington twins sat together on the settee, giggling, while Miss Russell smiled beatifically at a vase of roses.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham.” Lady Beatrice was attired in a Pomona green and puce ensemble with plumes in alternating colors, giving the unfortunate impression of a rotting plum. “Would you ladies care for some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Graham said. “Tea would be very pleasant.”

  Lady Beatrice poured and then reached into her workbasket. She pulled out a bottle of brandy and grinned. “Shall I add a dollop of French cream?”

  Mrs. Graham laughed. “Oh, no. I would be asleep before I got to the bottom of the cup.”

  Emma frowned as she took her tea, also without brandy. “Mr. Lambert said he had put all that away.” She bit her lip as soon as the words were out. It wasn’t her place to criticize.

  Lady Beatrice shrugged and put the bottle back in her basket. “Mr. Lambert may be an excellent butler, but he is no match for me when it comes to deviousness.”

  “Come, Miss Peterson, don’t frown so,” Mrs. Begley said. “It’s not as if we indulge every day. Why, we didn’t take a drop in our tea yesterday, did we, ladies?”

  “Not a drop.” Miss Esther Farthington shook her head slowly.

  “And we’ve had barely a drop today.” Miss Rachel Farthington sighed.

  Miss Russell smiled at the roses.

  “You worry too much, Miss Peterson, if I may say so.” Mrs. Begley pointed her teacup at Emma while the twins nodded. “You are only twenty-six, not sixty-six. You act like an old lady sometimes.”

  The twins stopped nodding abruptly and their brows snapped into identical frowns.

  “Sixty-six is not old.” Miss Esther clicked her cup on the table. “We are seventy, and we are not old, Lavinia.”

  “Indeed not.” Miss Rachel waggled her finger. “Eighty-six, that may be old, but sixty-six—never.”

  Mrs. Begley threw up her hands, almost upsetting her teacup. “My point is, Miss Peterson, you are still single, marriageable, attractive…”

  With each adjective, the Farthington twins appeared to puff up like angry wrens, feathers ruffled. Mrs. Begley threw them a harried glance.

  “What I mean is, you are still young—too young to be constantly worried about propriety.”

  Mrs. Graham chuckled. “I thought it was the young girls who most had to worry about propriety, Lavinia.”

  “And I am not young,” Emma said. This was an exceedingly stupid conversation. “My sister, Meg, is young.”

  “Your sister Meg is a veritable infant. Children her age need to be chaperoned. You, however…” Mrs. Begley paused, tapping her teacup gently against her teeth.

  “You are a second-day rosebud,” Miss Russell said.

  Everyone stared as if one of the chairs had spoken. Miss Russell blinked back at them.

  “Whatever do you mean, Blanche?” Mrs. Begley asked.

  “Miss Peterson—her petals have unfurled just a little. Relaxed. Opened up.”

  Lady Beatrice snorted. “Not likely.”

  “No, I see what Blanche is saying,” Miss Rachel said. “She’s right.”

  Miss Esther nodded. “Meg is like a new bud, fresh, tight…”

  “…but Emma’s been out in the sun longer. Been blown about more.”

  “Had more bees visit—”

  “Miss Esther, I’m not certain where this metaphor is going, but it is beginning to sound quite inappropriate.” Mrs. Graham’s voice had a distinct edge.

  “They are only saying Emma has enough experience to be interesting,” Mrs. Begley said. “I quite agree.”

  Emma sat bolt upright.

  “I do not have any experience.”

  “Not of an intimate nature, of course. At least, I assume…?”

  “Lavinia!”

  “Well, Harriet, she certainly has more life experience than a seventeen-year-old chit,” Mrs. Begley said.

  Emma’s ears were still burning with the word “intimate.” She snorted, trying to act as if the conversation were not galloping away from her. “Oh, yes. Nine years more experience, to be exact.”

  “And each of those years is important, miss. Not all of marriage occurs in the bedroom, you know. Men do allow one to emerge from the sheets to eat, read the papers, converse. It is vastly more appealing to have a wife with a few interesting thoughts knocking around in her brain box—or his brain box in the case of one’s husband, of course.”

  Sheets? Emma felt a light flush travel up her neck. The image of Lord Knightsdale scantily attired in his bedsheets the night he’d come hunting ghosts in the nursery flashed into her mind.

  “You are…seasoned, Miss Peterson,” Mrs. Begley said. “Much more attractive to a man with a discriminating palate.”

  “Mrs. Begley,” Mrs. Graham said, “you make Emma sound like a beefsteak.”

  “That could do with a little more seasoning, unless I miss my guess.” Lady Beatrice added another splash of brandy to her tea. “Lavinia is correct, Miss Peterson. You worry too much about propriety. You need to take a few risks—have some fun. You are not a girl in her first Season—and yes, I know you’ve never had a Season, but the concept holds. Society, at least here in the country, will give you a little more freedom than you seem willing to give yourself.” She held up her purloined brandy bottle. “A little deviousness is all to the good, Miss Peterson. It’s a dull woman who knows only propriety.”

  “And no man wants a dull woman,” Lady Begley said.

  “Especially not my nephew.”

  Emma spewed a mouthful of tea back into her teacup.

  “Did I miss something?” Mrs. Graham asked.

  “No. There’s nothing to miss. Nothing at all. Lady Beatrice has simply imbibed too much spirits. She is befuddled. Bemused. Confused.” Emma was horrified. Now all the ladies of the Society knew Lady Beatrice’s matrimonial opinion—ladies who had little sense of decorum and tongues that ran on wheels.

  “I am not confused, miss. Charles needs an heir; his nieces need a mama. Whom else is he to choose? I mean, look at your competition. Lady Caroline…”

  Miss Esther oinked.

  “Miss Oldston.”

  Miss Rachel neighed.

  Lady Beatrice nodded. “And she looks remarkably like a toad as well. Entire family does. Then there’s Miss Frampton.”

  “Spotty.” Mrs. Begley wrinkled her nose.

  “Miss Pelham.”

  “Nasty mother.”

  Everyone stared at Miss Russell again.

  “Well, it’s true. Miss Pelham has a very nasty mother. I wouldn’t want her as a mother-in-law.”

  “Exactly.” Lady Beatrice nodded, sending her plumes bobbing. “That leaves only you.”

  “And Meg and Lizzie and Miss Haverford, as well as co
untless ladies of the ton not present at this house party.”

  Lady Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Meg is only interested in weeds, and Lizzie is only interested in the Earl of Westbrooke. Miss Haverford is one of Miss Russell’s new rosebuds—too young. I just cannot see Charles offering for her.”

  “Miss Haverford is not too young,” Emma said. “She is seventeen, the same age as Meg and Lizzie. A perfectly acceptable age for marriage.”

  Lady Beatrice snorted. “Not for Charles. He would be so bored, he’d fall asleep before he could—”

  “Lady Beatrice, please.” Mrs. Graham scowled at Charles’s aunt. “Emma is a gently bred, unmarried lady.”

  Lady Beatrice scowled back. “And she’ll stay that way if she doesn’t bestir herself. Charles is a plum waiting to be picked. She can have him if she wants. She just needs to stretch out her hand and pluck him off the bachelor tree.”

  Mrs. Begley grabbed the brandy bottle. “Gawd, Lady Bea, don’t go poetic on us.”

  “Well, it’s true. Part of grabbing a husband is finding one who is ripe. Charles is. The title is sitting heavy on his shoulders. Someone will pick him before the year’s out—may as well be Miss Peterson.” Lady Beatrice leaned toward Emma. “Go on, girl. Go harvest the man before some other chit beats you to him.”

  Emma stared back at Lady Beatrice. How did one respond to such a statement? That she wanted something more from marriage?

  But what, exactly? Love, of course, but what of the disturbing feelings that flooded her whenever she thought of Charles’s body hard against hers?

  “Well, I believe we have wandered in matrimonial horticulture long enough,” Mrs. Graham said, smiling. “This speculation is groundless until Emma has received an offer from Lord Knightsdale. And I’m certain she would prefer to consider the subject in private, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  Emma made some noise that Mrs. Graham must have taken as agreement. The older woman directed the conversation into more acceptable channels. It flowed around Emma—gossip of local families, of the London house party guests. Emma was grateful—the first positive feeling she’d had for Mrs. Graham since she realized the woman was more than just another parish lady to her father.