by Sara Portman
She had not overslept. John had risen earlier still.
Or perhaps—not stayed.
As soon as she gave birth to the question, it set up stubborn residence in her mind. She fretted over the answer as she washed her face with water from the ewer, selected a morning dress, and pinned up her hair.
She could not pinpoint precisely why, but that information—whether her husband had slept the duration of the night in her bed—was suddenly of utmost importance. Yet she could not determine if he had. All his things were gone—boots, clothing—but that was no indication of when he had gathered them. Her own place on the mattress was no longer more than barely warm. Had his place cooled for minutes or hours? She could not say.
She paused. She was bent over her bed, running her hand over the mattress, looking for warm spots.
Silliness.
She snatched her hand back. What did it matter anyway? She shook her head to right her senses. Lord, she’d gone daft. Breakfast. Charlotte. Brantmoor. She had plenty of reasonable subjects on which she could be dwelling.
Emma checked her appearance one more time in her glass before making her way downstairs to the breakfast room. She fervently hoped this day would bring more peaceful relations with Charlotte and the incorrigible Mr. Brydges. If she was able to engage in one polite conversation with her new sister-in-law today, she would consider it a victory. There was much to be accomplished, after all, if the family intended to return to London before the season was out.
Emma walked into the breakfast room and noted, despite the early hour, she was the last to arrive. Three pairs of eyes rose to take in her entrance.
She should have been gratified to enter a peacefully quiet room. She should have been calmed to see that Charlotte had deigned to appear, in what was likely her best dress, and was eating politely in the company of Mr. Brydges. Instead, her eyes, with complete autonomy to her will, traveled to meet John’s and, unbidden, the memory of his words from the prior evening assailed her.
I will look through that and see you now, shivering with passion in my arms.
Oh heavens. She was not calm. Heat suffused her from head to toe and surely stained her cheeks with unattractive splotches of the brightest red. Could he tell she remembered? Could they all tell?
“Good morning,” she said in a clipped, overly bright tone. “You are all early risers, I see.”
When one’s thoughts were a jumble, as Emma’s most certainly were, one did not attempt complex conversation. Verbalizations of the obvious seemed achievement enough.
“Good morning.” John’s response sounded normal, but Emma caught the heat of his gaze coupled with the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth.
She averted her eyes to focus on her breakfast. If there had been conversation prior to her arrival, it did not continue then. The others ate in silence as Emma filled a plate from the sideboard and seated herself at the table.
“I have decided we shall return to London in three weeks’ time,” John announced once Emma had begun eating.
Emma swallowed. She sipped tea to wash down the bite upon which she’d nearly choked. “Three weeks?”
John nodded. “We will return to town in three weeks and hold a ball shortly thereafter. We shall all have a great deal to accomplish before then.” He turned and looked at Emma, triggering a fresh infusion of awkward heat. “The duchess is quite capable of making the necessary arrangements for such an event.” He directed his attention to his sister then. “Charlotte, you will involve yourself as well. You will not only need to ready yourself for London, but it will be beneficial to you to understand how these events are managed. You will likely be planning events such as this for your husband’s family one day.”
Charlotte cast a suspicious glance at Emma, as though this punishment of a task had been her doing.
“What about you?” Charlotte asked her brother. “What will you be doing?”
Charlotte’s question, impertinent though it was, echoed Emma’s thoughts. John had seemed to imply he would also be busily engaged and generally unavailable.
“There is a great deal of business with the estate to be addressed following my long absence, including the selection of a new secretary. Brydges has also agreed to stay with us these few weeks to assist me in evaluating and expanding our stables.”
Mr. Brydges was the subject of Charlotte’s unpleasant gaze this time. He smiled boldly back at her. She pouted.
“Charlotte,” Emma said, anxious to interrupt any brewing storm, “I have arranged for a dressmaker to be here this afternoon.” Every young girl appreciated new dresses—or at least most young girls. Emma had preferred horses to dresses, but she’d been a rather singular girl. Surely, Charlotte, who’d been raised with very little, would welcome new things.
“I have perfectly serviceable dresses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte,” John said, rising from the table. “Of course you need new dresses. Nothing you have will suffice. Emma knows what you need. Place your trust in her.”
Emma was once again the recipient of Charlotte’s ire. “I don’t want to meet the dressmaker today. I’m still tired from traveling.”
Emma exerted a valiant effort not to sigh too loudly. “I’m afraid rescheduling will not be possible.” Emma had expended considerable effort in persuading one of the most fashionable modistes in London to leave her shop at the height of the season and travel into the countryside to measure and dress the duke’s sister. She had promised an exorbitant expenditure and still several had declined.
“There is no time. It shall be today.” John gave the order with finality and quitted the room, as though the thing were done and no possible objection could remain.
Emma recognized the error of that assumption immediately. Charlotte, glaring back at her from across the table with pinched mouth and little blue fires set under slashes of dark, angry brow, was far from cowed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I suppose you’ve come to reprimand me for missing the dressmaker’s appointment this afternoon.”
Emma sighed. She’d only walked into the front parlor and already Charlotte’s hackles were raised. “Where were you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte closed the book in her hands. “I didn’t feel well. I stayed in my room. I’m only now feeling a little better, if you care to know.”
“I checked your room, as I’m sure you’d expect.”
“So I wasn’t in my room,” she said easily, showing no shame for the prior lie. “Am I to be a prisoner in this house? Do I not have any freedom?”
Emma was exhausted of repeating essentially this same conversation. It was the fourth in the same number of days concerning either the dressmaker or the dance master.
“You are a young, unmarried lady, Charlotte. You cannot go missing for periods of time without putting your reputation at risk. You are also expected to keep appointments that are made on your behalf, particularly those with someone who has gone through a great deal of trouble and traveled all the way from London to meet you. Madame Desmarais refused to return until I reminded her of the sheer volume of garments you require.”
Emma stopped. She exhaled. She would not lecture Charlotte on her behavior. She’d done enough of that over the past week and she was weary of it. She was weary of so many things and needed a distraction.
“Charlotte,” she began again, this time adopting a conciliatory tone. “I don’t want to engage in a debate. What’s done is done. I think perhaps what we both need is some time out of doors. I thought we could have a ride together.”
“A ride?” Charlotte asked, her voice rising. “Do you mean ride horses?” Charlotte stared up at Emma as though she had just suggested they acquire some rope to practice scaling the manor walls in case of fire.
“Yes, I mean ride horses. The mounts Mr. Brydges brought for us are splendid animals. You’ve never even seen yours, but she’s lovely.” It was true. Whatever else she found lacking in Mr. Brydges, he clearly had a keen eye
for horseflesh.
“I don’t want to ride.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t see why you people of quality have such a fascination with horse riding. They are dirty, smelly, ornery animals.”
Emma had never met a horse as ornery as her new sister-in-law, but she desperately wanted to go riding and so chose to keep that thought to herself. “Come now, Charlotte. You complain of confinement. Here I am offering you an afternoon of fresh air and freedom.”
Emma needed to do something to bring herself joy, or risk becoming overwhelmed with melancholy. So far, the task of preparing Charlotte for the season had proven to be an endless source of frustration. The girl clearly possessed no desire to become prepared and thus chose avoidance or objection instead of cooperation on all possible occasions. Perhaps Emma could have weathered these challenges more happily if she had the benefit of an ally in her husband, but he seemed to have abandoned the entire effort to Emma’s management. He seemed to have completely forgotten he had a wife or a sister at all, as he had become so absorbed in the estate he rarely encountered the ladies except at dinner—when he and Mr. Brydges were not so engaged as to miss dinner altogether. John had come to her room precisely twice since returning to Brantmoor—not every night, not even most nights, and she knew now he did not stay. He always returned to his own chamber. She couldn’t help but be glad every time he came, but every time he left, she had the sense he saw their coupling as somehow wrong or shameful. She would have asked him about it, but wasn’t entirely sure of the question. Besides, she could never locate him anyway. He was always off somewhere with Mr. Brydges.
“If you value fresh air and freedom, then by all means go riding. I’m not going.”
“Not going where?” Mr. Brydges asked, entering the room just as Emma was desiring his absence from their midst.
Lovely. In addition to ensuring her husband’s constant absence, Mr. Brydges had been a significant contributor to Charlotte’s ill disposition. He was the last thing this conversation required for improvement.
“Riding, Mr. Brydges,” Charlotte said pointedly. “I am not going riding.”
“A worthy skill to possess, riding,” Mr. Brydges contributed, predictably taking a contrary position to Charlotte’s. Then again, Charlotte was so contrary all the time, it was difficult not to do so.
“I am not particularly interested in that ‘worthy skill,’” Charlotte declared, crossing her arms in front of her as she sat erect on the sofa. “If both of you desire a ride, I suggest you take one together and leave me in peace.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed as she spoke and her mouth was set in a firm pout at the conclusion of her speech. Emma could recognize after only a week of the signs of Charlotte’s rising temper and did not particularly wish to witness it flaring just then.
“It was only a suggestion, Charlotte. We do not have to ride today,” Emma offered.
Mr. Brydges clasped his hands together and brought two pointed fingers to his lips. “Ah, I see,” he said dramatically, as though he had solved a puzzle of some complication.
Charlotte’s attention snapped to Mr. Brydges. “What do you see?” she sniped.
He placed a hand upon his chest. “If I were a miniature person, I believe I would also be frightened of horses.” He addressed Emma next when he said, “Perhaps we can fit a saddle for a small pony or even a large hound for Lady Charlotte to learn to ride.”
Emma found herself cursing the timing that had brought Mr. Brydges into the parlor just then. Wasn’t he needed somewhere by the duke? Had he no sympathy for Emma, who would be left to deal with Charlotte’s foul mood once he’d finished with his game?
Charlotte rose from her seat. “I am not frightened.”
“No? Perhaps we should adjourn to the stables now then, so the lesson may begin. I’m a fairly accomplished rider, if I may say so. I’d be happy to tutor you.”
“We’ve no need of your assistance, Mr. Brydges,” Emma interjected.
“I’ve already informed the duchess I’ve no intention of riding this afternoon,” Charlotte said, placing closed fists on either side of a tiny waist.
Mr. Brydges turned to Emma. “You do see it, don’t you? She’s deathly afraid of the beasts, poor thing. Why I think she’s near to tears.”
The thought had not occurred to Emma, but now that Mr. Brydges had pointed it out in his usual frank and insensitive manner, she wondered if that weren’t the case. If Charlotte had reached the age of eighteen, having never ridden her entire life…well, it was a distinct possibility. Of course, Mr. Brydges could not possibly have made his comment with less sympathy or understanding.
Afraid or not, Charlotte was nowhere near tears. Her blue eyes glittered like shards of brittle glass as she glared at Mr. Brydges. “Do you honestly think I’m so malleable that I could be tricked into riding just to prove I’m not afraid? I’ve known since we met you are an insensitive lout. As it happens, you are also a fool.”
Emma did not believe Charlotte’s glare could have become more hateful, more menacing, but it did. She advanced on Mr. Brydges as though stalking him.
“You may as well take your foul-smelling horse back home with you, Mr. Brydges. Because, I assure you, James Madison will swear fealty to the crown before I ever sit atop that animal.” She turned her back to them and was, once again, gone.
Emma could have screamed. As it was, she released a huff of air before turning in exasperation to the meddlesome Mr. Brydges. “Are you pleased, now? You’ve driven her into a corner and she will never ride at all—purely because of her dislike of you.” She set her hands at her own hips. “A dislike, I might add, with which I can currently sympathize.”
The man shrugged back at with an annoyingly smug expression.
“She’s right, isn’t she?” Emma demanded. “You were trying to goad her into it. Did you really think that would be effective?”
“Without question. She may have realized the ploy, but it does not necessarily follow that it didn’t work. She’ll prove me wrong. She’ll have to prove me wrong.”
“You are the blindest seeing man I’ve ever known. She will never ride that horse. She cannot because she has declared she will not. That girl, Mr. Brydges, has more stubborn will than Napoleon himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The small group in residence at Brantmoor had developed an unspoken synchronicity which saw them all at breakfast together most days. It was odd, in Emma’s estimation, as they unfortunately had not seemed to have done so in the interest of seeking each other’s company.
In truth, it seemed, they all sought at audience with John. Emma’s eyes traveled the room. They were all here—not just at breakfast, but at Brantmoor—because of John. His duchess, his sister, and his friend, all strangers brought together by a single point of connection, she mused.
Only Mr. Brydges seemed to be getting much of the attention from the man in question, though. The two gentlemen dominated conversation at breakfast, but even that observation was true on the greater scale than simply the morning meal. The men were forever off on some estate business or matter to be addressed in the stables.
“You’ve my undivided attention today,” John said to Brydges, as though prompted by Emma’s very thoughts. “We can discuss the improvements you are proposing for the stables.”
Mr. Brydges nodded his acceptance of this invitation. “Perfect. You will not be at the Glendon farm, after all, then?”
“The Glenburn farm,” John corrected, “and no I will not. It seems I have forgotten today is market day in Brantmoor Village.”
“Market day?” Emma asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation. “Does Brantmoor Village still have a market?”
“Yes and no,” John said. “Brantmoor Village hasn’t had a prosperous active market since…well, I suppose I don’t know. Market day is probably inaptly named. It’s more about revelry than trade, I suppose. It is once yearly, in summer.”
“Then it is more of a fair?”
Emma asked.
“I understand so, yes”.
“Do you mean to say you’ve never been?” Emma asked.
John seemed taken aback by Emma’s question. “The family is generally not in residence for Market Day. We would be in town now if not for Charlotte’s arrival,” he explained. “There is a fete at harvest time that is sponsored by the family. We are always in attendance for that occasion.”
“Well, we are in residence now,” Emma pointed out. “There is no reason why we should not attend this year.”
Her husband chewed a bite of toast thoughtfully before answering. “Now that I think of it, you are right. Frankly, I regret not arriving at this conclusion myself. Everyone is well aware we are in residence. We should absolutely attend.”
Emma smiled at him. “Lovely,” she said, with a nod. “An outing shall do us all some good.” And she truly believed it would. It would certainly do her some good. Hopefully, it would be beneficial to Charlotte’s disposition as well.
“That sounds a brilliant idea,” Mr. Brydges declared.
Immediately Emma turned to Charlotte, concerned this effusive approval from Mr. Brydges would threaten Charlotte’s view of the day’s plan.
Charlotte’s pout validated her concerns. She turned to Emma with a saucy tilt of her head. “Now that I am such an elevated personage, what am I expected to don for such an outing?”
“Naturally, you should wear your most elegant evening wear,” Mr. Brydges offered up before Emma could answer. “How else will the simple townsfolk recognize their betters?”
Charlotte glared.
Emma did as well.
“Sheath your sword, Brydges,” John said, his own expression conveying his disapproval of the man’s heckling. “What has gotten into you?”
Mr. Brydges only frowned.
Emma sighed and turned her attention back to her disgruntled protégé. “Which of your day dresses have been completed?”