by Sara Portman
“But that is already done, my dear, and cannot be undone.” The earl lifted a folded letter from a salver on the hall table. “You have a letter from your friend Miss Betancourt. Why don’t you take some time to yourself, Emma? Your aunt and I will leave you to your letter and your thoughts.”
* * *
Emma took the letter to her room. It sat unread on her bureau as she lay back, fully dressed, across her bed and considered the case of the duke’s sister. She could not help but sympathize with Charlotte. Emma’s debut at seventeen had been disastrous in all respects. She’d masked her insecurities with resistance and lack of effort. When her father took matters into his own hands to secure her future, he’d named that very lack of cooperation as the reason, insisting she’d have no prospects at all if he left the matter to her for another season.
And Emma at least had the advantage of being brought up knowing what to expect. Moving about in society was a carefully choreographed dance and poor Charlotte Brantwood would not even recognize the tune. How awful to think of the unwitting, frightened child subjected to the harsh treatment of Lady Wolfe. Emma simply couldn’t see Georgiana Wolfe having the strength of will to manage John or protect Charlotte.
Not John.
The duke.
She really must stop thinking of him as John if she did not intend to marry him.
If she did not intend to marry him? Was she considering it?
She supposed she was.
She recalled the brief moment in her conversation with Mr. Greystoke in which she believed he may have established a claim to her hand. Somehow, she didn’t feel the same sense of alarm in considering marriage to John.
She could admit he was not the villain she’d imagined him to be all these years. She could respect, even admire, the choices he’d made for his family. She was embarrassed to think of how passionately she’d defended him to Mr. Brydges. Did she truly believe any woman should consider herself fortunate to marry him? Was she becoming resigned to the rationality of marrying her fiancé, or was she allowing herself to be influenced by what she’d experienced in his arms? She could not be certain that it was common sense rather than girlish, romantic feelings urging her to consider the marriage, and that conflict was very troubling to her peace of mind.
She would be very naïve, after all, to imagine his interest in her was anything more than a means to an end. He’d told her as much.
John himself seemed to be at the root of her indecision, for though she knew he did not harbor great affection for her, she could not bring herself to decide for certain whether he truly possessed the nobility of character she had begun to suspect. Still, he had refused throughout the period of their re-acquaintance to honor her wishes, despite the clarity and repetition with which she’d conveyed them. Would he be a fair husband? Would he be domineering and high-handed? Would he sell her cottage once she married and it was no longer hers, but his? Could she be happy married to a man like him? Would her happiness count for anything?
She could not know. And therein lay the crux of her final resistance.
With no further answers to be derived from her self-analysis on the subject of marriage, Emma sighed and turned to the distraction presented by her letter from home.
Although the greatest share of Emma’s life thus far had been spent at either the family estate in Lancashire, or the house in town that had been her father’s and then her uncle’s, she would always feel that home was a cottage in the small, insignificant village of Beadwell. And Lucy Betancourt, the local vicar’s daughter, would forever be her closest and dearest friend.
Emma broke the seal on Lucy’s letter, anticipating a long narrative full of the details of life in Beadwell since Emma had been away.
Dearest Emma,
I have alarming news from home. The detestable Mr. Crawford has declared a crime committed against him in which the perpetrator has destroyed his fence and killed his chickens. He has named none other than the sweet boy Simon as the guilty party. The entire village is concerned for what will become of poor Simon if Mr. Crawford takes his charges to the magistrate, as he has threatened. I’m afraid it shall become a matter of each man’s word against the other, and what persuasion shall a poor smithy’s son have against the word of a gentleman? Dear Mrs. Brown is beside herself with concern. If you are able at all to return to Beadwell, I fear you may be the only person with connections enough to be of some benefit to poor Simon.
Your dear friend,
Lucy
Preposterous.
Emma threw the letter onto her table. Simon would never do such a thing; she was sure of it.
Guilt filled her. Simon had been Mr. Crawford’s target solely because Emma was far away. The odious man had been harassing her from the moment her parents were gone. Now he was threatening Simon because of her personal interest in the boy.
How frightened Simon must be.
Rage filled Emma. How could a man do this to a boy? All for a piece of property. It was unspeakable.
Once again, she cursed the timing of her presence in London. She should be home, where she was needed.
Emma put her head in her hands and let the guilt enrobe her. If only there were not the matter of the unresolved betrothal—she would rush to Simon’s aid immediately.
What was she thinking?
She could not allow Simon to face false charges when she was personally responsible. He was only thirteen—a child. She had to do something, and she would continue to manage her own affairs. The Duke of Worley did not control her. His announcements and grand plans could not prevent her from being where she was needed most. Banns or no, he could not have a wedding without a bride.
Chapter Nine
Mr. Crawford lived in a stone house not much larger than Emma’s cottage, set back from the road and covered on one side with creeping ivy. She always thought it seemed a bit too picturesque to house such a ruthless man. Emma’s present anger with Mr. Crawford had been left to grow, unchecked, all through a very long journey from London in her uncle’s carriage. It was probably greater, still, for her current state of hunger and thirst, but she was too concerned for Simon’s welfare to be distracted by the need for rest or a meal. She was determined to have the matter done. This nonsensical feud could not continue.
Once Emma was handed down from the carriage by the coachman, she charged up the path to the weathered front door and knocked.
The door was opened—not fully, but enough for Emma to see Juliana Crawford. Mr. Crawford’s daughter looked as she always did, painfully thin, pale, and as worn as the house around her. She and Emma were near in age, or so Emma believed, but Juliana had resisted all overtures of friendship over the years. Emma always suspected Juliana’s father would not allow it and considered that yet another reason to dislike the man.
Because it was not appropriate in the present circumstances to extend her condolences to Miss Crawford for the unlucky fate of her birth, Emma simply said,” Good afternoon, Miss Crawford. Is your father home?”
Juliana swallowed and glanced behind her before answering. “Wait here,” she instructed, and shut the door, leaving Emma still standing at the threshold.
Finally, the door swung wide and Mr. Crawford himself appeared. Oddly fastidious when compared with his barely maintained home, Mr. Crawford’s shave was clean, his diminishing hair neatly clipped, and his clothing, if simple in style, neatly tailored and unrumpled. None of this attention to grooming, however, softened the effect of his sharp, angular features, which seemed to always point accusingly at the person to whom he directed his attention. If he was startled to find his neighbor on his doorstep or to see the earl’s carriage in the middle of their sleepy village, he disguised it well.
There were no greetings dispensed.
“You’re here to discuss Simon’s mischief, I imagine,” Mr. Crawford said, as though he felt it were about time someone did.
“I am. Perhaps you could invite me in?”
He stepped aside and waved
for her to enter. Once inside, he led her to a tidy parlor filled with well-worn furniture and threadbare upholstery, where he found enough manners to invite her to sit.
“Well?” he asked sharply. “What is it you’ve come to say about the boy?”
“Simon has been in my employ for nearly three years, as you well know, Mr. Crawford. I know he is a good boy.”
Mr. Crawford eyed her shrewdly. “He’s a motherless troublemaker who’s caused no end of vexation for the village.”
Emma nearly rose from her seat. “That’s a lie.” She glared at him.
He glared back.
Emma inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Mr. Crawford, surely we can discuss this reasonably as long-standing neighbors.”
The older man shrugged, then graced her with a very unappealing grin. “I’m nothing if not reasonable.”
“I understand you’ve accused Simon of killing your chickens?”
“Not just that,” Mr. Crawford insisted. “He broke in at night, ruined my fence, killed my chickens, and stole the pig.”
This was the first Emma had heard of the pig.
“All that?” Emma asked, now watching Mr. Crawford with a sharper eye. He had added quite a bit to Simon’s supposed crime. He knew as well as she if Simon were found guilty, no one would consider his age. This list of concocted crimes would ensure he would hang, or be transported on a convict ship. Either would be a death sentence.
The man nodded.
“I wonder…what does a thirteen-year-old boy want with a pig?” she asked.
“Why, to eat it, I imagine.”
“Yes, but this boy is fed by Mrs. Brown. It’s not as though he needs to steal food to eat. We both know Mrs. Brown. It’s more likely he is overfed, is it not?”
He grunted in response.
“And how do you know he’s killed chickens? Are all your chickens gone?”
“No. Just some of the chickens.”
“How do you know he killed them?”
“Because I found the dead ones. I knew he’d done it.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Because he’s full of mischief, that one. Everyone knows he did it.” Mr. Crawford shifted his weight and looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “But,” he drawled, “if you’re concerned about the boy’s fate, I might be willing to accept a settlement to abandon the prosecution.”
“What sort of settlement did you have in mind?”
“Don’t play coy, girl. You know full well what sort of settlement.”
Of course she did. He wanted what he had always wanted—her property, the parcel of land that stretched between the back of her cottage and the back of his house. He’d been harassing her for it, claiming it to be rightfully his, since the day her parents died and she inherited it. Well it was not his. It was hers.
“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “The answer will always be no.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to answer, were I in your position,” he said with arid smugness. “You said yourself you wanted to see what could be done about the boy. I suppose if you returned that property to me, I could find it in my heart to forget the boy’s mischief.”
She did not yield, but said simply, “That seems an uneven exchange for the loss of a pig.”
Mr. Crawford smirked. “Maybe it’s a large price compared with a pig, but it’s not so large compared to the life of the boy, I’d think—if he’s as important as he seems to be.”
How very clever he was. Yes, Simon was important to her. He was not just a local boy she happened to employ. He had been under the particular care of Emma and the Browns since his mother had passed away. Mr. Crawford knew this. The whole village knew this.
Just as the whole village knew Simon was innocent.
Emma stood. She would not listen to this any further. “It seems to me your only proof is a few dead chickens and a theory no one else believes, Mr. Crawford. You will not be successful. And I will not give you my land.”
Mr. Crawford rose as well. His confidence had not wavered despite her adamant refusal. “I didn’t suppose you would be willing to just give me the land, Lady Emmaline. I would be happy to offer you a fair price for the property if you were willing to consider selling it,” he said. “Fair, considering the circumstances.”
Oh, she could well imagine his idea of “fair, considering the circumstances” and it was nowhere near a reasonable sum. But the sum was of no consequence. She would never, for any price, sell the land that included her garden.
” No.”
“You’ll be sorry for your quick answer once I’ve had my discussion with the magistrate,” he spat. The he straightened, his eyes gloating. “Who do you think will have more sway—a respected country gentleman, or the orphaned son of a blacksmith?”
Simon was not an orphan, but Emma did not bother to argue that point. “What of the daughter of an earl?” she asked. “You discount my sway with the magistrate.”
He snorted. “You are the daughter of a dead earl. He has little consequence now. And you are a woman. Besides, of what import is the word of anyone who was miles away in London when the theft occurred?”
He looked so pleased with himself at this point, Emma could have easily lost control of her temper, but she did not. “You overestimate your case, Mr. Crawford. No one, not even you, believes your accusations. Simon may not be the son of a gentleman, but he has more friends than you realize. Perhaps you would have done better to cultivate some of your own.”
With those words, she spun on her heel and departed the Crawford residence. She did so with her head high, conveying all the assurance of her words.
She only wished she felt as confident as she pretended to be.
* * *
Emma had sent the coachman ahead when she arrived in Beadwell, planning to return to the cottage on foot after speaking with Mr. Crawford, and she was glad for the walk. She found herself seeking another direction, however, another place that was as much home as her cottage. Her mind rambled desperately. As hated as Mr. Crawford was in the village, he was a gentleman. There was a baron or knight or something somewhere in the line of Crawford’s he could claim as relations. Those connections wouldn’t measure a bit in London, but here in the countryside it certainly elevated his status to well above the local blacksmith. Simon’s fate hinged on the magistrate and whether or not the man could be convinced to believe Mr. Crawford’s fictitious version of events. Frustratingly, Emma had been in London when the supposed chickens had been killed.
Chickens! For heaven’s sake. Of all the ridiculous things. Of course she would be dealing with dead chickens on top of everything else. Why could she not have had a pleasant and restful summer? Between Mr. Crawford and the Duke of Worley, Emma had just about all she could stomach of overbearing, manipulative men. She groaned aloud as she walked and realized she had been nearly stomping her way to her friend’s doorstep.
The parsonage house was a small dwelling of crumbling stone with a wide, arched entryway and carved wooden door that had always seemed to Emma to be oddly out of place on the otherwise modest residence. It sat in the shadow of the church steeple that towered above the village and was, at times, the only sign of Beadwell’s existence not hidden from view by the surrounding hills. Emma’s rap on the door to the house had barely struck when the portal was flung wide revealing the bright and welcome grin of her dearest friend.
“Emma, you’ve come!” Lucy said, gathering Emma into her warm embrace. “I was certain you would.”
“Of course,” Emma said, as Lucy stepped back to examine her. “I left London as soon as I read your letter. How could I not?”
“I’ve been expecting you since word reached us that your uncle’s carriage had been spied in the village,” Lucy said. “I’ve already told my mother I’m leaving. Let’s walk to the cottage.”
Emma laughed at Lucy’s exuberance and allowed her friend to take her by the arm as they set off toward her home.
“Were your aunt and
uncle very disappointed,” Lucy asked, “to have your visit interrupted?”
“They were very understanding. There was no question that I must come.” Her initial hesitation had been irrational, after all, and couldn’t possibly signify.
Lucy nodded.
Emma’s smile was wistful. “My uncle might have come himself, once he saw my concern, but with parliament in session, he felt he must stay in town.”
“I’m sure you were sad to leave their company,” Lucy noted.
Emma made a face. “Their company, yes, but I was not sad to rid myself of the company of others in London.”
“Oh my. It sounds as though you have a good deal to tell.”
“I do,” Emma confirmed, “but all of that can wait until we have discussed Mr. Crawford. I fear our problems there may be more difficult to resolve than I anticipated, and perhaps I was shortsighted in not asking my uncle to come.”
“Have you spoken with Mr. Crawford?” Lucy asked.
“I have. It was not a hopeful conversation.”
Emma explained in detail her conversation with Mr. Crawford and his attempt at blackmail.
Lucy gasped. “Your mother’s garden? But you couldn’t!”
“Rest assured,” Emma said fervently, “I will not. I will find some other way to protect Simon.”
“We shall find a way together, I promise,” Lucy said, with a reassuring squeeze of Emma’s hand.
“Now, I am intrigued to hear tales of London,” she said. “I must know whose presence was so unpleasant as to require escape.”
“Perhaps you are aware that the Duke of Worley’s son, or rather, the new duke, has miraculously returned to England?” Emma asked.
“I am,” Lucy confirmed. “Was it difficult for you, Emma?” Lucy asked, her delicately pale features marred with concern. “It had to be strange, hearing the news, knowing you were once engaged to him.”
Emma released her breath in an anxious huff. “It appears ‘once’ may not be as accurate as ‘still,’” she said. Just giving voice to the situation caused her shoulders to slump in defeat.