by Sara Portman
“Well, so things are improving, if she stayed for the last one.”
Emma turned and leveled him with an unamused glare for his sarcasm. “There was no need for her to storm out after she injured the dance master. He will not be returning.” She tied the sash at the wrapper’s waist and jerked it tight.
He nearly flinched with it, that final tug, as though it were the click of a lock that closed her treasures away for the night.
“I may need you to stand in for a lesson,” she continued. “A dance master seems a waste at this stage regardless. Charlotte lacks even a rudimentary knowledge of the dances. She’s intelligent enough to learn quickly, but she absolutely refuses to try.” She stepped forward, her features softening. “Perhaps if you were to stand in as her partner, she’d be more willing to take some basic instruction. You’re the only one who can influence her.”
“I’m certain that’s not true,” John replied, with an involuntary step back.
She cast him a dubious glance but otherwise ignored his comment. “Beyond that, your friend Mr. Brydges has successfully goaded Charlotte into declaring that she will never, under any circumstance, learn to ride a horse. Frankly, given what little we’ve accomplished and how few days we have left, I can’t imagine riding lessons should matter anyway. We will be lucky if she is dressed and able to curtsy to the queen by the time we are back in town.” John sighed heavily. This news of Charlotte’s progress—or lack thereof—made no sense. The two seemed to get on well in the village market. “How is it she has been missing appointments?” he asked. “Hasn’t she been with you?”
Emma’s lips pressed tightly and her arms crossed in front of her chest. “I am doing the best I can to help a person who does not want my help. She is a grown woman and is not in my keeping every moment of the day.”
He’d only asked the question to gain some understanding, not to blame Emma, but she’d pricked up nonetheless. He kept his voice carefully matter-of-fact as he explained, “I did not mean her behavior is your fault. I only wonder, if she fails to appear, why don’t you simply go get her?”
“Yes, that would be simple,” Emma bit back, “if she were not regularly missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“I mean in a location which I am unable to divine.”
Had John not paused before he spoke, his response would have been much more unpleasant. Her rising temper was unproductive and, to his mind, disproportionate. He was only attempting to understand and apply some common sense to the situation. “I don’t require your wit, only the answer,” he told her.
Brown eyes that had so recently glowed amber with passion now flashed with anger. “I do not know where she goes. You should ask her. She will not share it with me.”
This should not be so difficult. Why couldn’t these two women get along and manage to order a few dresses and learn a few dances without requiring his presence? He could not spend his days with Charlotte if it meant spending his days with Emma.
He released another burdened sigh. “I will talk with Charlotte.”
“Thank you. When?”
“When?”
“When will you talk with Charlotte?”
He stared at her. “Soon.”
“Will you talk with her tomorrow?”
His jaw tightened. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.
She nodded tightly. “Fine. Tomorrow. And the dancing lesson?”
He shifted his eyes. He did not want to become Charlotte’s new dance master and spend his days in Emma’s company. Any benefit he could provide to Charlotte was far outweighed by the consequences of his infatuation with Emma. He could not conduct a dance lesson tomorrow. He would spend the day away from his wife—all day, and the evening too. “We will see to it,” he agreed, retreating toward the adjoining door, “but not tomorrow. I will be otherwise engaged. It will have to be another day.”
“Fine,” she said again. “Since there are no appointments tomorrow and there will be no dance lesson, I will spend the day at my cottage.” She turned then and sat at her dressing table.
He stopped and faced her again. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t spend the day in Beadwell.”
She picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her unbound hair in one long continuous stroke. “Why ever not?” she asked, watching her own reflection rather than looking at him.
“Because you just explained how little progress you’ve made with Charlotte and how much there is to be done in the time remaining. It makes no sense to leave. You have committed to Charlotte.”
Her brush landed forcefully on the dressing table and her eyes met his in the mirror. When she spoke it was slow and deliberate. “And you have committed to allowing me time at my cottage. If you have need of me tomorrow, you will find me there.”
* * *
Emma awoke to sun streaming through a gap in her curtains. She sighed and rose from the bed to retrieve a thin, lace-trimmed wrap from its place draped across the back of a delicately carved chair. She donned the wrap and walked to the window, where she pushed back the curtain gazed out on the room’s unobstructed view of the west lawn and the crescent-shaped pond that bordered it. Beyond the pond, the landscape rose into a forested hill. She recalled being told of riding trails through the forest.
She would like to ride those trails, but not today. Today she would ride all the way to Beadwell.
She could take the carriage, as surely the duke assumed she would, but she wanted the ride. She would take a groomsman to accompany her, since her husband did not have time for such things and her sister-in-law objected so fiercely.
A ride would help her to gather herself again. Emma had begun to feel less like a rudder-steered boat on a well-mapped course and more like driftwood bouncing about on the ocean’s whim. No more. She resolved to remember she was the Duchess of Worley, for better or worse. Too much of her frustration the prior evening had nothing to do with Charlotte and everything to do with her growing resentment over the fact that her husband not only ignored Charlotte, but her as well. Mooning over a man who did not care was a thoughtless use of her time and heartache. She’d struck a bargain with her husband. Passion, at least on occasion, was a part of that bargain.
More was not.
That point had been eloquently made to her last evening.
She was a member of the family now—the matriarch of it, rather—and helping Charlotte was not merely a debt she owed John, but a familial responsibility. She should focus her attentions on that task.
After her ride to Beadwell, of course. She fully intended to take this day for herself. For just this day, John, Charlotte, and Mr. Brydges could all go to the devil.
Emma stepped away from the window and pondered what, precisely, she would do with her day at the cottage. There would certainly be work in the garden, but she would visit the parsonage as well. Her mood lifted even as she said it. She knew sharing her frustrations with Lucy would make them more manageable, and Lucy’s advice would always be practical.
Lucy would probably manage the entire situation better than Emma ever could. She almost never lost her temper and everyone loved her. Even Charlotte would probably love her.
Even Charlotte would probably love Lucy…
A thought found purchase in Emma’s mind. Charlotte didn’t want to ride. She needed something else to fill her time and round out her accomplishments. What of the pianoforte? She wouldn’t get far in two weeks, but she could begin now and continue when the season was ended.
Lucy played beautifully and had the patience of a saint! Emma could trust Lucy not to tell tales about any lapses in behavior she witnessed from Charlotte. She could also trust Lucy not to be provoking. Why, she positively exuded sunshine and happiness.
Emma was resolved. She would not just visit Lucy in Beadwell. She would invite her to Brantmoor. Charlotte needed a music teacher, but even more…Emma desperately needed a friend and ally.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“There is a visitor, Y
our Grace.”
This unwelcome announcement brought forth only a grunt of response from John. His head was bent over papers, reviewing sums and evaluating reports prepared by his father’s secretary. He’d let the man go, as he was not capable of continuing the employ of a secretary complicit in denying aid to a dying woman. Now he found himself acting as his own secretary until the replacement he hired arrived at Brantmoor.
“Shall I send him away, sir?”
John finally looked up. “Whom did you say it was?”
The man coughed. John could not for the life of him remember this man’s name. There had been too many employees and too few weeks to learn them all. “I did not say, Your Grace, but he has given his name as Pritchard—of the Boston Pritchards.”
Damn. John closed the ledger. There was no one from Boston whose visit would bode well, particularly not a visitor with the last name of Pritchard. “I will see Mr. Pritchard here, in my study.”
The man gave a slight bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Mr. Pritchard of Boston walked into the private study of the Duke of Worley with his head held high and enough swagger to fill a gentleman’s club in London. He appeared in worn boots with an untidy shave and clothing that looked as though it had made the entire journey from Boston on the man’s form. He should have had the good sense to understand where he was and with whom he was dealing. He should have been dignified—or at least respectable. Or at the very least, sober. He was none of these things. Therefore, he was on John’s nerves before he had even spoken.
“Mr. Pritchard,” John said, rising reluctantly from his seat and walking round his desk to stand in front of it. Standing was better. He did not want this Pritchard fellow to feel welcome to stay.
“My Lord Duke,” he said with an awkward bow that pitched slightly to the left, “I have come to inquire after the welfare of your sister, Charlotte.”
“You have come a long way just to inquire, Mr. Pritchard. A letter would have been a less troublesome manner of inquiry.”
“Certainly.” The man brought a hand to the breast of his rumpled coat. “But I do not think I could have satisfied myself with only a letter. I feel—responsible—for Lottie.”
John bristled. He’d always hated that particular familiarity—Lottie. He and his mother did not use it. The Pritchards did. John had never met the Pritchard family while he was in Boston, which evidently was for the best. He didn’t like this man. And he didn’t like him claiming responsibility for Charlotte.
“You have made a long journey for naught, Mr. Pritchard. I am responsible for Lady Charlotte.” He stressed the title. “Her welfare, were it any concern of yours, is not in jeopardy.”
“Please understand,” the American said, stepping closer to John, “I never saw Lottie as just our kitchen girl. I always thought we had a special friendship.”
John glared and took a heavy step toward Pritchard. His voice was low and quiet when he responded, but he pronounced each word with careful intent. “Unless you’ve traveled across the sea with a pair of dueling pistols, Mr. Pritchard, do not suggest again that you have enjoyed any manner of friendship with my sister.”
Our kitchen girl. John sneered at the thought. The Pritchard standing in his study lacked the age and the consequence to be the Pritchard in whose kitchen Charlotte had found employment when Mother turned ill. He was the son perhaps. How disappointed the father must be.
“I meant no insult to be sure. I am only concerned for your family. How hard this must be, trying to explain how your sister was plucked out of a Boston kitchen and dropped into the ballrooms of London.”
John felt a small tic begin in his right temple. It seemed connected to his right fist, for that pulsed as well—tightening and releasing on a steady beat.
The man kept talking, unaware of the increasing threat to his person. “It would be much easier for all concerned if instead, you presented a sister who has returned to England after her marriage to the son of a respectable Boston family.”
John’s voice was barely more than a growl when he asked, “And you propose to be that man?”
“Yes.” He nodded gravely as though this offer were a brave self-sacrifice.
The Pritchards, from what John knew of his sister’s employers during her brief tenure as a kitchen maid, were a fine Boston family. This man, Pritchard or not, did not appear even close to John’s expectation of respectable. His bold manner, his loose speech, and his ruddy color were confirmation enough that the man had stopped off for a pint—or more likely several—before imposing himself upon John’s productive afternoon.
“Perhaps Lottie has mentioned me, Your Grace,” he said with a proud grin.
John was finished with this man and this conversation. “She has not. That part of Charlotte’s life is done and left behind in Boston. Your concern is appreciated. My man will show you out.”
For the first time since the American arrived, his bravado faltered. His mouth opened and shut without sound before opening again to squawk, “I’ve come a very long way.”
“And you have a long journey home. There is no sense in delaying.”
“But I haven’t even seen your sister yet.”
“Nor will you.”
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed again. Did the man refuse to understand he’d been instructed to go? John was dangerously close to physically removing the man from his home.
“I don’t think you’ve really considered the situation. Think of how uncomfortable everyone will be when they realize this year’s newest debutante is nothing but a kitchen maid.”
Pritchard’s threats were no longer veiled, so John’s directions ceased to be subtle. “Get out,” he commanded.
The bastard still didn’t move. John strode forward, fists clenched.
Finally, reality registered with the American. His eyes grew round and he leapt to attention.
John glared, towering several inches above him, his face no more than a foot from the other man’s when he bellowed for a footman. He did not yield his position, even when the footman arrived.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Remove this man.” He said it with quiet finality, and the American did not balk this time. He quit the room, with the footman behind him.
“See to it that man leaves the grounds,” John barked. “And summon my sister.”
John fumed. Did that drunkard actually think he would make his fortune by blackmailing his way into marrying a duke’s sister? He was lucky to be allowed to leave unscathed. He needed to be soundly beaten and dragged onto the next departing ship, regardless of its destination. If he wasn’t far enough away by nightfall, he may yet get just that.
John forced himself to sit at his desk and take a deep settling breath, but he felt no calmer than he’d been a moment before. What sort of lion’s den had his sister been forced to work within? Fresh rage for his father ran through him that his sister was made to be subservient to a man like Pritchard, who was no better than vermin
There was a tentative rap on the study’s heavy oak door.
“Yes.”
The door creaked open and Charlotte walked in.
Little Charlotte.
John and a few long-standing servants at Brantmoor were probably the last few living in England with any memory of Charlotte as an infant. She’d been all smiles and gurgles then, with everyone cooing over her. A mere boy himself, John had been disgusted by her. Now, smiles were scarce and she wanted no help from anyone, much less cooing. She was not always contrary, though that might surprise Emma or Brydges. Even after long days of laboring, she could have a sunny disposition, when she chose to have one.
From her mulish expression and wary eyes, he divined she had not chosen so today. She wore a simple, worn dress and her hair in a plain, plaited bun. John recognized the dress because he was tired of seeing it. She’d arrived from Boston in it and, with the exception of the new dress debuted on Market day, she’d worn this and one other even older garment every day since.
“Are there no new dresses yet?” he asked.
“The duchess ordered all sorts, but they’ve yet to be fitted.”
“Hmmm.” He crossed his arms and leaned his hips back against the generations-old desk that had served all the Dukes of Worley before him. “That bit is difficult if you do not attend fittings.”
Charlotte looked down and tucked a stray tendril of dark hair behind her ear. “I thought the duchess was away today.”
“She is. I am referring to fittings on other days,” he said flatly. “Don’t you want new dresses?”
“I have perfectly fine dresses.” Her declaration lacked vehemence.
“You’re being objectionable for no reason. Why on earth would you refuse new clothing?”
Charlotte shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “I don’t like to be poked all over with pins by clumsy seamstresses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have to meet them first to know if they’re clumsy. And if you are pricked, it’s likely because you are behaving as a brat and the seamstress chooses to prick you.”
Her head snapped up and she smiled. “I am not a brat.”
“You are and it will not continue.” He pointed at her present attire. “You have precisely one week before this dress and its partner will be taken from your room while you sleep and burned on my orders. You will cooperate in fittings or catch a chill.”
Charlotte laughed. It was a light, easy laugh. John was happy to hear the sound. If others could see her smiling and laughing as she was now, perhaps they would not judge her so harshly.
“Fine,” she said. “I will order a thousand dresses and it will cost you a fortune.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Her smiles were so rare these days he was loath to chase one away, but he must. “I had a visitor just now.”
Still laughing, Charlotte leaned dramatically to one side, drawing the fingertips of one hand to her chest and extending the other as though holding an imaginary train. She lifted her chin in exaggerated importance. “Was it the queen? I am a very highborn lady, you know.”
“It was a Mr. Pritchard.”